Monochrome
by mimichanvalak
Summary: By day, Katsuki Yuuri is a shy bumbling albeit genius grad student who has nothing figured out in his life. By night, he is a masked vigilante struggling to find a cool name for his alter-ego . It seems all is well until he falls in love with his childhood idol Victor Nikiforov and finds out he's not the only masked man in town. Superhero AU.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

* * *

2:40 a.m.

Sometimes, during his post-midnight escapades, he feels as if he is sleepwalking.

Well. More like, sleep-leaping-from-roof-to-roof, sleep-breaking-bones, sleep-dropping-criminals-at-the-police-door. Like Spider-Man. Or Batman. Except Yuuri hates all fictional superheroes. They bend the rules of science. Suspend disbelief.

So does he.

 _Ah._ He guesses all heroes are hypocrites.

He sprints across the roof of the building, hanging by the flag pole, the breeze hitting the corners of his eyes (the only visible part of his face; after some planning, he decided on a full-face black mask - he had to put glasses for the eyes since he's allergic to lenses, _yes,_ he is super-agile but blind as a bat without his glasses). A full face mask protects his face during speedy runs, as well as identity. He doesn't know what he is protecting his identity for; not that he has his family in the city. Maybe it's in the superhero discourse. Maybe he just likes being private.

However, he thinks he needs to rethink the whole glasses in the mask thing. It's a big weakness; pull off the mask and he is half-done. He made sure it's made of flame resistant polymer, though he knows it won't survive a blow of super-force. Rest of him is in black too; it's good for night-time camouflage and streamlining through the air. He hasn't been caught on camera yet, so he isn't sure how the whole look goes.

Unless he's caught on camera, he thinks he doesn't need an alter-ego name. Does he?

He had some ideas, however. _Ninja-man_ (true to his Japanese roots; if he'd been in Japan people would've called him a ninja anyway) _, Black Thunder_ (he wasn't sure where the thunder part was coming from but the name was intimidating) _, Mr. Fantastic_ (shame, Marvel took this one already) _, Masked Vigilante_ (that was... not very creative) _._

 _Lame._ That's what they are. All of them.

He presses his ear against the radio. Nothing for now. A cat mews somewhere below in the dark alley. The city is unusually quiet and crime-free tonight.

 _Wait, signals._ Disturbanceat southwest. _Finally, something._ His lips curve into a slight, crooked smile even as he flings himself about from across the pole and lands on the ledge. Then spreads his arms apart and lets his weight have the better of him, free-falling into the void.

"We are going to have some fun tonight."

* * *

2:15 a.m.

"Don't make fuss, goddammit. Chuck a knife or put a bullet to the head and slip out quietly, but if you trynna wake up the whole neighbourhood I'm gonna put a bullet to yours."

"B-but boss -"

"Two minutes, _cyka blyat,_ go in, grab the booty, tail between your legs and get out. I'll look for the guards. If they're too many, send me a signal. I'll call the crew. We'll take them far and end it there. Clear?"

Williamson nods reluctantly. He hates this guy, hates calling him "Boss" when all he does is push him forth whenever they are in deep waters, and throws in these Russian swear-words he catches from his higher-ups. A turf war is a serious issue, and Williamson very well realises his boss man will go stand by the Jeep and set off as soon as there is the tiniest hint of trouble.

Stepping in that house is a death trap in itself. And going alone is... Williamson can feel his heart in his mouth. He hasn't seen a member of the other crew and doesn't know how hostile they might be. He has no idea how many are in there either.

Williamson tracks his way through the living room. The room to the left is the only one lit, albeit very dimly. He follows the trail of light - there is a young man sitting at the table, a cloud of cigarette smoke around him forming patterns against the glow of the bulb. Williamson breathes a sigh of relief. Only one man.

Except he looks strong, and exotic, and dangerous. His leather jacket glistens, and the undercut looks intimidating over his thick furrowed eyebrows. A Mexican mercenary?

"Come in."

Williamson obeys. The man doesn't sound Mexican at all.

"Where's your boss?" The man asks him, not sparing a glance.

Williamson feels his collar heat-up. He grits his teeth. "He's outside. You can do the negotiations with me. I'm capable enough." Jesus, why can't he ever sound confident?

"I see."

"What is your name?"

"Call me Altin. Please sit."

He is too polite to be a part of a gang, Williamson observes. Maybe a newbie. Williamson occupies the chair placed right opposite the man, shifting uncomfortably, clenching at the armrests.

Suddenly, Altin tosses out what looks like a few chunks of crystal meth wrapped in plastic on the table. "One of our guys found one of your guys selling these across our turf."

Williamson takes in a deep breath. "I am aware."

"We'll let him go as soon as you answer us a few questions."

"Alright."

"The stuff, the stuff is tight. D'you fellas cook it?"

"It comes from the higher-ups. We handle the business."

"Handle the business, huh? Seems like you _know_ things. Unlike that sissy we caught in the morning. Tough lad, kept spitting on me. Might've just bashed his head to the wall."

"Frankly, I don't give a shit," says Williamson, pulling out a cigarette from the open packet on the table, and flicks his lighter against it, "What is important is that we maintain the sanctity of our boundaries. Peace, peace is precious."

All of a sudden, Altin leans over across the table and pulls him by his collar, sending him to a state of such shock that the newly-lit cigarette is flung into the air and lands on Williamson's lap. Altin's brown eyes are livid, his high cheekbones throwing in a scary shadow to his face.

"How does a criminal dog work without a sense of loyalty?"

What? A switch flips in Williamson's head and he knows he's in trouble. But it probably isn't the kind of trouble he was expecting. Before he can realise, Altin's gun is out and pointing at him. _No no no no no -_

The man before him whips out an ID. "Otabek Altin, DEA. You are under arrest."

* * *

Otabek knows that pulling off a sting operation without informing anybody and too on his very first case is going to put him under fire, especially from his officers. But that's for later. Right now, the man in front of him, stout in build with a bald spot glistening against the hot, dim light, is shrunken into his chair, perhaps calculating his next move.

The man seems weak, cowardly, insincere. He'd make a good witness; he might just lay bare the entire underbelly of this dark network. Unlike the one from the morning. The one from the morning was... interesting.

Before Otabek distracts himself again, he sends back a signal. He might need back-up.

Suddenly, he notices the man snaking his hand inside his jacket. Otabek springs to action, knocking the end of his handgun against the man's head. "Don't even _try._ " He punches the man in the stomach, even as the man doubles over, groaning in pain. Otabek follows it up by shuffling up the man's pockets and looking for weapons in the few seconds that he stunned him. Standard procedure.

He finds an AK-47 and a switchblade. The man moans on the floor incoherently, his knees to his chest, huddled together like a baby.

"I wasn't... going... for the gun."

Sharp turn. The man has stood up again, like a wounded dog that refuses to go down, and prepares to ram his body against him. Amidst the buzz of crickets, Otabek hears the sound of an engine starting off. _Fuck_. The man was reaching for his phone. And the other guy is escaping.

Otabek has no time for a fistfight. With the end of his handgun, he swings another blow at the man, hoping it's hard enough to knock him unconscious for a while. At the impending smack, the man tumbles off balance and skids on his knees; Otabek makes for the run. He has no time to check; he has to catch the other guy.

He sprints and sets off his motorbike. The red lights of the jeep are still visible down the road, when -

 _Bang_!

The bullet misses him by inches. It's that man in the room again. Apparently, he's still holding up - instinctively, Otabek shoots at the man's leg to bog him down - _fuck no, the other one is getting away -_ how was he supposed to handle both of them -

" _I gotchu officer!"_

Someone screams that aloud. And Otabek is pretty sure it isn't the man with the gun crying in agony against the doorway, clutching his leg.

Something just passed them by. Something like a very quick cat. Like a solid, running, shadow.

* * *

If the Jeep keeps hurtling forth without any concern towards the tyres or the physics of meandering roads, it's going to fling itself into a ditch anyway, thinks Yuuri.

He accelerates, and then with one swift motion, climbs onto the ledge of the warehouse right by him and readies for the big launch - the launch that'll land him right on top of the vehicle, as he hopes.

And it does. _Slam_. He feels his knees denting into the surface of the car. They are _so_ going to be sore tomorrow. The guy in the driver's seat goes for a sharp bend to try and throw him off. True that, Yuuri isn't as prepared as he assumed. He has to grab onto the wipers to keep his balance.

More sharp bends. When nothing helps, the guy shoots at him. Yuuri dodges easily. The shots are badly aimed anyway in that terribly swivelling vehicle that has probably failed its brakes by now.

"Oh I'm sorry, am I blocking the vision?!" Yuuri sneers at him. With what looks like a last-ditch attempt, the guy turns the steering wheel a complete left, and as an expected consequence, the Jeep topples sideways and slides across the road, reaching to a halt by ramming into a tree.

Yuuri steps off the now-mangled vehicle and dusts himself. _Damn, that guy had no chill._ Hands on his hips, he sighs, and climbs up again, this time trying to bend some of the metal and make some space to pull the man out of that death trap. "I hope you were wearing a seatbelt..."

There he is, the guy. He seems - in one piece - thankfully, his forehead shining with fresh blood and the last of his scream still somewhat etched on his face. Yuuri clutches the man's wrist. There seems a pulse...

"Is he alive?"

He turns to find the policeman he passed by when he began to trail the jeep. "Yeah," replies Yuuri, "probably broke some ribs, cracked his skull... I don't know . Hope he remembers what you need to get out of him after you bandage him all up - eh?"

The policeman is standing alert by his motorbike, mumbling something into his headphone, his gun pointed at Yuuri. He barks, "Who are you?!"

Oh, right. With the mask and the pitch distorter fitted right into it, Yuuri must look like a cheap cosplay of a power-ranger who took things more seriously than he should have. But then. He hasn't thought of a name yet.

"I'm a nobody."

The policeman still doesn't budge. "Freeze right there."

"No can do, amigo, I gotta go. I got your man, what's your problem?"

"You got him half-dead."

"FYI, I didn't ask him to drive his car into a tree. C'mon, get him to a hospital, he'll make it. I guess I'll catch up with you sometime later. See ya!"

He half-expects the police guy to shoot at him as he takes off, but for some reason he lets him go easy and instead shifts his attention to the injured man. Yuuri runs to the shadows again; before he leaves the scene, he thinks he catches the sight of something odd right where the road ends - something silver.

It's an old fence, and a broken down car. Not a soul in sight; he walks around a few yards... well, just a trash can. Except, a little ahead, there's a patch of ice on the pavement.

That's weird. The weather isn't cold enough for that patch to form naturally. Suddenly he's too tired to think. Maybe the reflection of the ice patch is what he caught from afar. He can hear sirens in the distance now; he must escape before that policeman changes his mind and brings up an entire force unit to overpower him.

He checks his watch. 3:30 a.m.

Panic.

 _Shit. Shit. Shit._

"I've an early class tomorrow."

* * *

"Yuuri, you could've slept in the class, but _no,_ you haveto snooze in the canteen."

"It was organic chemistry." Yuuri barely whispers in his defence, his sleep-deprived eyelids drooping further down as he digs his face deeper into his arms on the table, while his tray food grows cold. He knows karma is going to hit him back one day for ignoring his second-favourite thing in the world.

He guesses his most favourite thing will be dogs. He misses Vicchan... and everyone else back at Hasetsu, mum, dad, Mari-nee chan, Minako-sensei, Yuuko, Nishigori -

"It was an optional."

"Mmff... my grades are falling..."

"That's because you're a ball of anxiety."

Yuuri looks up at his blissfully unaware Thai friend. He wants to glare, but instead has to fish for his glasses inside his jacket because all he can figure is a tanned outline of a face and a concerned smile. Also, according to his friend (by friend, Yuuri means his best friend, his only friend, his lifeline in the city), Yuuri has an eternally confused doe-eyed expression that can never intimidate anyone.

Wow, Yuuri wonders, he might just be the classic archetype of the nerdy nerd turns superhero. All he needs now is a damsel in distress. Too bad he's going to end up alone.

"I don't get it though, you went to sleep at 9 sharp last night, how come you're so exhausted?"

"Phichit..." _Wait, figure the lie before you speak._ He stutters, "I - I was - actually, I woke up in the middle of the night, and then I couldn't sleep again and I kept surfing the net..."

He casually covers his ears (which tend to go red when he lies) with his palms, and pretends to rest his head against them. He isn't sure how much he is able to convince Phichit, who is staring down at his phone scrolling through his Instagram feed, a smug smile on his face.

Phichit smirks. "You've got yourself a boyfriend, haven't you?"

"What - _no_!" Had Yuuri been more flustered, he'd have sent his food tray flying across the table.

"Hey, look at this," Phichit points at his phone screen, "Some mysterious guy saved a kid on the street last night. It's blink-and-you-miss-it fast. This has got to be fake."

Yuuri adjusts his collar and nods. He peeks; no, the video is too shaky and he's hardly visible when he scoops the child up from right in front of the truck and puts her safe on the sidewalk. "Uh, yeah. Totally." It's terribly guilt-inducing but convenient to keep his flatmate in the dark. Not that Phichit will ever believe that someone like him climbs out of the window at night to fight crime.

"Oh god, what is this -"

"Uh -"

"Victor Nikiforov is going to join our college for his Medieval Arts degree!"

Yuuri thinks his heart missed a beat. "Excuse me?"

"It's true! See!"

When he gazes at Phichit's phone screen again, which turns out to be an article from the college's unofficial blog, he drifts off to his own world... back to his small room at Hasetsu where he had once filled every inch of his walls with posters of Victor Nikiforov.

When Yuuri was eleven, Victor was fifteen and had already qualified for his first Grand Prix figure skating finals. Victor was hailed a natural genius; he had a certain grace with which he skated, danced, or even waved at the camera. Even through the wall of the TV, Victor, with his waist-long silver hair and striking blue eyes, used to feel like a waft of cool breeze.

Every year, a new programme, a new story. Victor never failed to surprise him. So much so, Yuuri decided to step on the ice for himself. Somehow, he turned out to be good, even won a few trophies. As unfortunate as it was, Yuuri had to stop when his powers began to develop; before anyone could notice anything out of the way, he slid out of the figure skating scene.

And now, Phichit is telling him that his childhood crush, his inspiration, the man he had put on a pedestal and admired all his life, is coming to his college to major in a subject Yuuri has as an optional?

"Isn't he a bit too old for college?" Yuuri tries to make some sense out of it, keeping the shaking of his body and the treble of excitement in his voice a bare minimum.

"Maybe he wasn't able to complete his studies with the skating competitions and all. I don't know, I'm calling bullshit on this one too unless I see him in campus."

* * *

Sometimes Yuuri goes a level too far at pretensions.

While he is bumbling and clumsy by nature, he can carry weights like a pile of feathers. In the midst of people, he's often confused about how to enact the carrying part; whether he must keep it extremely low-key, or he must make people believe that his knees are aching with all that weight.

While on this thread, he must confess that his knees are _actually_ aching. Damn that Jeep. He hopes the criminal survived. It didn't look too bad after all.

"Excuse me, I -"

Yuuri wheels at the sound of the voice. He knows it too well. He thinks his heart has exploded out of his chest, while his hands have given way and the carton of beakers that he had been carrying to the lab crashes to the floor. Like his jaw, maybe.

This can't be happening.

"Oh god, I'm sorry I didn't mean to alarm you..."

It's him. It's really him.

 _("Kill me now_." _)_

The hallway is deserted but for the two of them; Victor is slightly taller than he is, his hair parted sideways and falling over one eye, the t-shirt under his zipped-open jacket hugging his figure a little too tightly for Yuuri's comfort, his lips turned into a mysterious, playboy smile. Yuuri can't figure if it's those damn blue eyes or the sunlight behind the guy that's flaring against his glasses and blinding him.

( _"Stop staring. Say something. Anything.")_

"Vi-Victor?"

( _"Why would you address a celebrity without his surname? You sound like a groupie already. Chill. Try again.")_

"One of your beakers broke," Victor bends down to collect the mess that crashed to the floor ten minutes ago.

"It's a flask, but - yeah," Yuuri hurtles down too, still on auto-gear, not sure what he's doing, his loud thumping heart cancelling every other noise around him. He can't decide if he wants to flee or ask for his autograph.

( _"Because making normal, human conversation is one power you don't possess."_ )

"Sorry about this," he apologizes again, "I just wanted to ask where the Medieval Arts department was. I'm lost on my first day." Then grins.

(" _Don't stare again. Focus. He's asking for directions. Where was the Medieval Arts department again?"_ )

"Er," Yuuri scratches at his neck, skin under his collar grown so hot he can practically bake a cake on it, racking his brains, and daringly attempts to put out a coherent sentence, "Um, go straight, and then take - take left. You can take a shortcut from the canteen - but, um, okay - after the left, just walk some distance and you'll reach the library. It's right by."

It takes a while for Victor to absorb it all. "So... go straight, take left, then the canteen -"

"- No, um, don't take the canteen route, just keep walking along the left, you'll reach a lecture room right beside the library -"

"Hey, why don't you show me the way? That'll be great help." He follows it with what Yuuri thinks is a wink.

"I'd love to, b-but I'm actually running late for my lab class."

( _"Great going, Katsuki. You just turned down spending five minutes with Victor Nikiforov.")_

"Oh, right, I forgot." To his surprise, Victor's face fell. Victor mustn't be very used to people turning him down. Yuuri feels a tinge of guilt and almost changes his mind, but then he does have a lab class and an inevitable scolding from the professor waiting.

"Okay... so," Yuuri pulls up the load, awkward (and perhaps beet red by now), "straight, turn left, walk, library, right side."

"Okay. Straight, left, walk, library, ."

As Yuuri watches him pass, he realises all these years he hasn't been wrong about Victor. Victor _does_ feel like a waft of cool breeze, and he can't explain why.

* * *

It's drizzling tonight.

Yuuri yawns. Another boring night. He sits, leaning against a window, legs dangling down the ledge, his head still stuck like a broken recorder at the episode in the hallway that happened about ten hours ago. He lets out a long sigh.

Victor must've forgotten about the whole thing as soon as he entered the lecture room. Why is Yuuri still on it? Urgh. He needs to get his mind off that particular memory, but tonight seems to be the perfect embodiment of wet, soggy boredom.

And just like that, a woman's scream rips through the air.

Instinctively, he bounces up to his feet and follows the sound. A few buildings afar, there's slight chaos - a huddle has formed over on the pavement, and a man is trying to tear through the crowd, running drastically out of sight. When Yuuri lands near the huddle, he notices the centre of its attention - a woman is lying on the concrete, slow puddle of blood forming below her.

"Has anyone called an ambulance?" he screams fiercely. Given his mask and all-black appearance, some people scatter around in fear, making space. Fuck the mugger, he needs to tend to the woman first.

"They're - they're on their way -" someone tells him, "there's too much blood -"

It's true. He places his hand over the wound, trying to stem the blood flow. No, he can't really wait and narrow her chances of survival. Without further ado, he carries the woman in his arms. She's still conscious, so she screams in agony.

"It's okay," he whispers, knowing it can't be much of a comfort as voice comes out of the mask in an automated static tone. He turns to one of the pedestrians. "Which way is the hospital?" Dammit, he needs to fit in a GPS system next time.

The pedestrian, wide-eyed and perhaps terrified, points towards left. Before he dashes, he thinks he hears someone scream, "Look, it's real-life Batman!"

He feels the slick coating of blood around the glove he pressed against her wound while he hops from one speeding car to another. Her eyelids are flickering and she's gasping for breath. Five more minutes - _wait,_ there it is, there's the ambulance the people called. He plants himself right in the middle of the street even as the ambulance launches its brakes, pausing exactly an inch before a mighty collision.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Someone jumps out of the vehicle and yells at him. "What the hell _are_ you?!"

"Bring a gurney, she needs help," Yuuri orders them, feeling the blood trickling down his elbow. Thankfully, they oblige fast.

Now that she's with rightful assistance, he thinks he can go look for that bastard thief.

It isn't long before Yuuri actually finds him in one of the empty alleys, cold.

Like, _literally._

The thief's skin is ice cold, although it appears as if he's only knocked out, like one would from shock, or something similar. His mouth is half-open, the bag he snatched in one of his hands, and the bloodied knife in the other.

Yuuri observes him. It's a bit odd to have some kind of unprovoked hypothermic attack in the middle of such a grisly humid night, and get punched out of one's senses. "Well, who did this to you, buddy?"

"Seems like you're not the only masked man in town."

* * *

Hihihihi superhero AU. Review if you like!


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

* * *

By the time Victor stepped into the skating world, he was nine, and was strictly instructed his powers are kept a secret.

Things didn't change much over the years.

Except sometimes he fears he has bottled so much in that any moment all of it might just explode. Now that he's twenty-five, and a salient, normal, cheerful celebrity that the cameras can never get enough of, the fear has grown tenfold, and very, very real.

"What?! You want to take a season off, just like that?! Vitya, are you out of your goddamn mind?!"

Snowflakes hit his face as he gave a slight turn of head, his skin too numb to sense the cold. Or maybe his skin had already been that way. Right then, a yard behind, his coach stood with his arms akimbo, his grey brows furrowing further and further with the thought of Victor's ridiculously rebellious stint, ankle-deep in snow.

On the highway, a car sped them by.

A taxi honked right across the sidewalk. Victor's lips curled into a small, impish smirk. It was almost as if he were at crossroads, and if he chose one, there wasn't a point of return. He spun and took a few steps back. When he faced his coach, he watched the older man's expression drop. Yakov seemed shocked, either about his apparent ability to break Victor's resolve with a few words, or how fickle his star student has become these days.

Then he whispered into the old man's ear, "Dasvidaniya, Yakov."

It was supposed to be a break. In some ways, it was a break from the continuous exile. He was feeling it in him; he needed to go somewhere, anywhere - he needed to release that coldness. To be honest, he didn't want to freeze a rink with chunks of rocky ice, or cover the seats with snow.

Or blow up his secret.

Or hurt people.

This was a needed break. Surely Yakov couldn't comprehend, but Victor cared about the bigger picture. "Sorry, Yakov. I can't listen to what you tell me. Not this time."

"How dare you say that when you haven't listened to me ever?"

And so Victor's here now. Detroit city.

He rents an apartment close to the university. It's a little too spacious for a single person and his poodle; and right now, every room is more or less a four walled space with random cartons and packages jotted along the paths like obstacles. He thinks he'd adjust slowly; maybe make some new friends and call them over to turn the house into a home. He wonders if an arrangement of his stuff is all he requires to bring that change.

He guesses it'll be just fine. So what if he has been a little lonely all his life. Frankly, it's gratifying at times.

He stares into the line of light that peeps through the hinge of the window, digging his fingers casually into his dog's soft brown fur. His dog whines for more sleep, and for a moment, he's just lost in thought. He reaches out for the jug of water at the bedside - it's a terribly humid day and the metal has heated up - so he holds the vessel between his palms and spaces out again.

Okay, this'll be a nice exercise. Cool the water down. Okay. Let's do it.

He tries to focus. What happens next is a white flare from his left palm and a sensation of someone peeling off his skin where the flare leaves, a flash of what looks like electricity going through the jug, and all he is left with is a container bent in the shape of a C, solid ice inside.

Wow. So much for all the control and grace of his skating feet.

He sighs, then slides the thing under his bed. It must be late morning, the sun is right above the heads and the neighbour lady is playing an old vinyl really loud - it's almost as if he has transported to a 60s Hollywood musical. He pulls on his gloves - not that they help much, but it's safer to keep his fingers not having skin contact with one another. Then checks his phone.

 **120 missed calls, 350 mails, 1542 text messages.**

"What the hell," he mumbles, scrolling through. He knows there has been a hush-hush coverage about him joining university, but by the looks of this it seems Yakov has finally made an official statement about Victor's temporary retirement.

Toothbrush in his mouth, he glazes over and marks them all as 'seen', and instead pulls out the class routine. Oh no. First day and he's already late.

"Run, Victor, run. Run like the wind," he low-key chants to himself like a mantra. Somehow manages to get ready in another five minutes, put his dog to the neighbour's care, pull those socks up and head out in the street.

* * *

No. Everything just screams no.

Victor isn't sure what he expected when he imagined college, but a never-ending maze with no directions and no help along the way isn't one them.

He should've seen it coming. Having been home-schooled, and then with his coach checking him in at every competition, delivering every formality so he can focus only on his performance... he hasn't handled things on his own... ever.

Right now, he feels like a giant toddler stuck in an adult body, thankfully adept in English language, but can't see a single living soul about his radius to help him find his department. He could go to ... that place where people go when they can't find a place at the university... but then again, he'd have to find that place and... well, he thinks he stopped making sense in his head two minutes ago.

"Why don't they sell maps outside?" Why doesn't he know anyone?

Wait, there's someone walking across the hallway. Victor breaks into a run to try and catch up, "Excuse me, I -"

It's a bespectacled boy holding a carton of empty test tubes and flasks, but as soon as Victor calls out the boy whips round to face him with such suddenness that it stuns them both to silence. Usually Victor can smooth-talk out of any situation but something just happens in the split-second that he can't explain - his mind slips off its registers until a blaring crash of that carton to the floor pulls it back to reality.

"Oh god, I'm sorry I didn't mean to alarm you..."

And yet the boy keeps staring, colour flaring up his cheeks, his glasses hanging at the tip of his nose. "Vi-Victor?"

And suddenly Victor wants to chuckle because this is all too cute. No, he's pretty sure he doesn't know this guy. But he wishes he does. A fan, right?

"One of your beakers broke," Victor bends down to collect them, holding up the one with jagged ends as a trophy of his regret.

"It's a flask, but - yeah," the boy falls to his knees as well, tossing the things back into the carton. It's a flask? Why did he call it a beaker? This boy must be a chemistry major, thinking of Victor as some airhead celebrity who's only here to hog attention. What is the difference between a flask and a beaker? Can you actually make such long-term conclusions from a flask?

"Sorry about this," Victor speaks again, not sure why he feels so embarrassed, "I just wanted to know where the Medieval Arts department was."

And the boy is staring again, staring like Victor has asked him an awfully obvious question.

"I'm lost on my first day." Victor adds, grinning. I was better off skating. Grins some more.

"Er," he scratches his neck, "Um, go straight, and then take - take left. You can take a shortcut from the canteen - but, um, okay - after the left, just walk some distance and you'll reach the library. It's right by." Since the boy seems flustered enough for both, Victor tries to be not, or at least, to make sure it doesn't show on his face.

"So... go straight, then left, then the canteen -"

"- No, um, don't take the canteen route, just keep walking along the left, you'll reach a lecture room right beside the library -"

Victor doesn't want to remember of all of it; it's too much effort right on the first day. Instead, he goes for the closest weapon at hand. "Hey, why don't you show me the way? That'll be great help."

He pairs it with the most confident smirk and a bonus wink. The combination never fails.

"I'd love to, b-but I'm actually running late for my lab class."

Victor's having a really, really off day. Nothing much, he just wants to lie down and cry. "Oh, right, I forgot." He's surprised at how small his voice sounded.

"Okay... so, straight, turn left, walk, library, right side." The boy readies to leave, as disinterested as ever. God knows what made Victor think he was interested in the first place. Maybe he wasn't blushing, maybe he was just having an allergy, or something. If he'd been blushing, he probably wouldn't have smacked Victor's proposal back on his face without second thought.

No one does that. No one has ever done that.

"Okay. Straight, left, walk, library, right. Thanks." With it, he hurries off, pulling his jacket closer to his chest.

Dang it. This probably was the most awkward ten minutes of his life. He feels heat flaring up his cheeks, something unsettling knotting in his chest. The specs boy rejected me. Right on his first day. Right when he was asking (flirting/low-key begging) for help. He hastens his steps. Straight, left, walk, library, right. If there's a God up there he can only pray that in his three years of university, no matter how lost he is, no matter how small the world or how tangled the universe is, he never bumps into that guy again.

* * *

To: Chris Giacometti

 **Why are you posing with a cardboard cutout of your ass?**

13:55 Delivered ✓

The reply comes within seconds.

From: Chris Giacometti

 **You don't have time to reply to anybody but here you are stalking my IG**

13:55

And the phone beeps again.

From: Chris Giacometti

 **I won't even ask why tf you disappeared**

13:56

And again. Victor snorts.

From: Chris Giacometti

 **Btw I'm chilling at Cleveland. Who am I kidding my man's Toyota Corolla is loaded I'm coming**

13:57

To: Chris Giacometti

 **You know I don't want to hear extra innuendos about you and your man. XD XD**

13:57 Delivered ✓

From: Chris Giacometti

 **Lel but I'm actually coming to your uni give me an hour ma cherie :***

13:58

Victor looks up from his phone at the lecturer again; he has missed a month worth of talks from the beginning of the semester, so it isn't entirely his fault that he can't follow the class for shit. He lets out a muffled yawn and begins to scribble a doodle at the margin of the page, right below where he had decorated today's date with excitement. First Day™ is falling short on everything.

His phone beeps once more.

From: Chris Giacometti

 **Oh shoot got stuck. Can't make it today. Sorry Victor will come** **tomorrow** **:( ;(**

14:11

Oh, look. Another disappointment.

Beep.

From: Chris Giacometti

 **Btw I saw something you might be interested in. First i thought it's you but then i thought nah. Anyway here -** **watch?v=jk7ajXgh9h**

14:13

He clicks on the link absent-mindedly, half-sure Chris is rickrolling him. The text screen slides down and the app pops up, buffering a video called 'Mystery man saves kid from Truck in Detroit unedited footage'. From the looks of it, it seems like a shaky cellphone video (and vertical, vertical videos are the bane of society) which has blown out of proportion with 500k views. He wonders what this is all about.

The point of view of the camera is squished between two heads of the pedestrians in front that keep bobbing up and down, when there's a sudden startled shriek and the camera's pointing at the road - there are bright headlights incoming and a kid frozen in middle of the crossing when something - someone - scoops the kid up a split-second before a possible crash and puts him on the sidewalk. The camera is shaking vigorously now, loud muffled voices in the background - it tries to get a long hard look at the saviour but - clad tip to toe in black with a mask on his face - the guy pushes his way through and runs off.

Why would Chris think it was Victor? Oh, right, Chris is the only person outside his family who knows about his secret. Dammit, Chris I can't run like that.

Who is that guy though? It's a guy, it's definitely a guy.

A guy who, according to this video, can run at non-human velocity.

Victor glances aside at the column of related videos. There are people deconstructing the footage, looping it, claiming evidence that it's fake. Can it be sped up? No, no, then the kid and the truck will have to move awfully slow... in keeping with the odds that it might be staged, something just tells him that it isn't.

All this time, Victor thought he's the only one out there. His powers always seemed to him like a blessing and a curse, less of a blessing and more of a curse, but... in any case.

Victor's heart gives out an irrelevant throb. That scoop... that grace... that unpredictability. A part of his mind can't stop fantasizing about it; granted it's five seconds worth of a blur that he's judging from, but Victor's breath shakes... he finds him running against the night sky... taking that mask off... black hair slicked back, eyes catching a red flare, tongue licking his lips up a storm... he might've finally found a match for himself... stop. He has to physically grab his forehead to stop his relentless imagination.

In any case, he needs to know who that man is.

* * *

His voice is not what Victor expects.

Although Victor has been patrolling through two neighborhoods, hood over the head to avoid possible attention, and literally skids across the street when he sees a man in a ski mask struggling to snatch a purse out of a middle-aged woman's grasp as the man drives his knife into the woman's side and wrenches it free while her scream rips through the air, he still likes to think their meeting is fated.

And Victor just stares at the spurt of blood and the woman toppling on her back, so shaken as if the world has slowed around him. Before he realises, there's crowd - and his hands are on his phone dialling 911, giving a hasty blubbering detail about the incident - when swoosh -

"Has anyone called an ambulance?"

It's him. Victor isn't even sure when he landed here. The voice sounded weird, almost robotic... ah, he spoke through a distorter. Seems he is very particular about keeping his identity a secret. Victor watches him go through a moment of indecision - whether to chase the criminal or help the victim - as he unhesitatingly chooses the latter. Victor's heart flutters.

Maybe it's a hint. Maybe Victor should go after the mugger. After all, it's fated.

Victor can still trace the mugger hurtling through the sparse crowd along the rows of shops, pushing people left, right and centre. He clenches his fists and breaks into a run. He might not be as fast as the guy in the black mask, but he still is a world class athlete.

It's a piece of cake when the muggers runs into a dead-end alley. Terrified, he trips over a bag of trash, but gets to his feet soon - as soon as he senses a presence behind him.

Victor really, really doesn't know what to do now. How do superheroes trash talk? "Hi," he begins, pulling his glove off and shoving it into his pocket, "Seems like I'm taking you to the pol- "

He is interrupted by an aggressive swing of the knife. It slices through Victor's shirt at the arm, and leaves a laceration on his skin. The mugger gapes in horror as the gash dribbles blood but then knits itself up into uninjured smooth skin within a minute.

He heals fast. Abnormally fast. That too.

"Platelets. Biology." Victor nods. The mugger didn't ask for an explanation, but Victor isn't sure what he's doing, so.

There's a second of confusion - the mugger decides to push past Victor to escape, and in the attempt, Victor manages to grab a handful of his shirt - and a flash of white that comes out of nowhere and leaves a sensation of hot electricity passing through the tips of his fingers - as the mugger thuds to the ground, unconscious.

"Ouch," Victor checks the criminal's pulse. Yeah, only knocked out. Cold. Pun intended.

Will the guy in the mask come back for him? Most probably.

When he does, will Victor introduce himself as Victor Nikiforov, currently ranked number 1 amongst men in international figure skating?

No, offering his own identity up on a silver plate to a man who's covered every inch of his skin isn't a fair game. But then, a grey Nike hoodie isn't doing too much for a disguise either.

An abrupt clunk of something hitting a metal railing sets off a panic alarm in Victor's head and without thinking, he rips off the mugger's ski mask and pulls it over his own head, hurtling into the shadow.

That was close. The mystery man is here, and now on his one knee, examining the thief. "Who did this to you, buddy?"

"Seems like you're not the only masked man in town."

* * *

When Yuuri's life can't get any more dramatic on its own, it throws him a tall silhouette in a grey hoodie walking out of the shadows in the back of a dead-end alley speckled with dumpsters, hands in his pockets, as if he has just arrived at a party.

"That's a ski mask," Yuuri observes.

"Yeah, well -"

Yuuri points down at the thief, "Wait, that's his ski mask."

"Yes, point made. Move on?"

"Sorry, I thought you don't have a face." With the ski mask and the hood over his head, it does look like it. And Yuuri has seen more than enough weirdos in the past. "Okay, since I haven't caught you in a scene of crime, I'll take your word for it, are you -"

"No, not a criminal," the guy utters, "I'm like you." Of course, Yuuri never thinks of him as a criminal, even under the moonlight, Yuuri can see the stark contrast of the dirty ski mask with the rest of his classier clothes. Plus, the way he carries himself doesn't say guilty.

"What's that supposed to mean? Like me? A creep like me?"

"No, a superhero. Like you."

"I'm not a superhero."

"Alright," the guy raises his arms in surrender, "better worded. A masked vigilante. You sure have powers. You strive for justice. You -"

"Yo, big words," Yuuri whistles him shut, climbing upon a ledge, "Are you here to interview?"

"No, just nervous."

Yuuri wants to laugh. Someone is actually nervous about meeting him. Him. "Why're you nervous?"

"Because, you're... you're really sexy."

Yuuri has to admit, past midnight, standing in a shady-ass alley, speaking through a pitch-distorting mic, clad in black spandex with hands still slicked with somebody else's blood, the last thing he expects is to be flirted with. But the hoodie guy is really prompt, and Yuuri has to give him that.

"Come again?"

"Never again. So, what's your name?"

"I don't have a name. You?"

"Hmm," the guy scratches his chin in thought, his other hand on his hip, "I think I'll call myself Ice Daddy."

"Excuse me?" Also, why does it sound familiar?

"Why not?"

"You took that from somewhere."

"Yeah, Vogue. And why not," it appears that he clicks his fingers together in excitement, and a streak of white light flares out of his fingertips, hitting a dumpster bin with such force that the metal mangles and then freezes inside a rocky block of ice.

"Sorry," he adds as an afterthought, rubbing his fingers against his pants as if he hurt himself with that demo, "I'm not very good at it."

"Gesundheit. So you can make ice and freeze people. Congratulations, you have the superpowers of a refrigerator," Yuuri makes a note. Nonetheless, he's impressed. But something that can't be controlled is worthless, and dangerous...

"...Hence. Ice Daddy."

"Look. Touché. Do whatever you want. If you want to do what I do, why don't you keep an eye over the other side of the city? Yes, do that. Try not to interact with civilians until you can control your powers. There's no point in us hanging out together sticking our thumbs up our asses." Yuuri pulls himself up the abandoned fire escape and leaps to the roof, readying to leave.

"But -"

"And please, oh please, think of another name..."

* * *

Unsurprisingly, after pushing an emergency gurney into the State Hospital at 4 a.m in the morning, Otabek's solo escapade couldn't remain a secret from the police department. He takes a sick leave the next morning, thinking things will die down fast, but a call from his senior officer right when he enters the place for his evening shift tells him he's probably in for a surprise.

"Oi, Altin, made us wait for a day, didn't ya," his senior officer smirks, feet upon his table as he sat across Otabek.

Otabek responds with a grim nod; his senior officer (more like, his partner, or more appropriately, the one Otabek's supposed to partner/assist as a newbie to the field) sports the same kind of undercut, but otherwise is a complete opposite: loud and obnoxious in nature, lip always hooked up with a cocky smile, a spotless badge on his pocket (that he probably polishes everyday) that reads Jean Jacques Leroy.

"C'mon, cheer up a little, will ya," Leroy pats him on the arm a little too enthusiastically. "I handled everything. You're not getting your ass in deep for assaulting criminals."

"I... I didn't assault them," he replies.

"Well, of course you didn't," Leroy winks smugly, as if he's going along some kind of lie, "I played witness. Told 'em I ordered through the sting. Once the meds wear off the Williamson guy, man, are we gonna get some darling info."

Wait, what? He told the higher-ups that he planned the sting? He took all the credit?

"... And they're all like, whoa JJ, are you freaking nuts? I said, two for two, what's wrong with that equation? The baldy opened fire and got himself a bullet in the leg. Classic textbook bust," that jerk of a senior officer laughs at his own joke, "And then, I told 'em, Altin, Altin was good. You might just be up for a promotion, mate."

Otabek shakes it off. He doesn't really care. "What about Yuri Plisetsky?"

"Who?"

"The boy we nabbed the other day selling meth across the street."

"Oh, that one. That's one frustrating fucker. Hasn't said a word."

Otabek thinks he feels a twinge of anger bobbing at his temple, "What's going to happen to him?"

"I don't know. He asked for his lawyer yesterday, no one sent him one, so he's getting one of those government appointed fresh-off-grad-school types. He's totally screwed."

"Can I talk to him?"

"Oh, yes. Be my guest. We're thinking of putting a bet on him. Beer for you Altin, if you can get a word out of him that isn't bitch."

* * *

It's a darkened room, with a light bulb hanging right over a table, air-conditioned and almost as dramatic as they made to look like in the movies. Otabek watches his wristwatch tick when the door creaks, breaking his trance. A boy trots in, eyes throwing daggers to the floor, jaws stiffened and fists clenched - followed by Leroy (or rather, JJ, as he just asked Otabek to call him) - giving the boy a slight push.

Grumbling under his breath, the boy settles on his chair without complain. Aggressively though.

Before anyone can speak, JJ announces, "Enjoy your date with the dog, Altin. I'll be off home now." With it, he slams the door to his back.

Good riddance. Otabek sighs.

There is a minute of silence. The boy hasn't made a single move, staring into the table. Otabek studies him. Defiant. Shoulder-length blond hair knotted up at the back into a messy bun. A small bruise forming along his pale cheek. It wasn't there before. Who hit him? JJ? A prison mate?

"So," Otabek begins, running his eyes through the file, "Yuri Plisetsky. Street name Yurio -"

"Don't call me that," he snarls quietly.

"Okay. We haven't made any progress, have we?"

"I don't have anything you need to know." Then he adds as an afterthought. "Bitch."

"Yuri," he says sincerely, "Do you know what's going to happen to you?"

"I don't care."

"How old are you?"

Silence.

Otabek asks again. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"You look young enough, but there's no way you can prove you're under eighteen. They're not sending anyone for you. Odds are you'll be fried at court and sent to regular prison for life."

"Do I look fucking dumb, bitch?"

"No, you don't. That's why I'm repeating again, telling what you know will only turn things in your favour," Otabek tries, a bit frustrated now, "anything you know. About who runs the empire, who employs you. Anything."

"Nobody employs me. I'm forced to work."

That's it, he's saying things now. Slowly, unwillingly, nevertheless.

"If you're forced to work, why aren't you giving names?"

"I don't know any."

"Liar."

"Bitch." Hardly audible, but the spite is seething. The boy has mellowed down from the day Otabek first interrogated him.

Otabek pulls out a bunch of photographs of the two men he caught last night; while the Williamson one is still tolerable, even with his eyelids fluttering upwards half-consciously, whites of his eyes catching the flare of the camera, and tongue pushing out, moaning in pain; the picture of the other guy, with the battered cheekbone and a swollen blue eye - is straight up sending creeps. He slides the photos across the table at Yuri Plisetsky.

Yuri's eyes go wide as soon as he glances at Williamson's picture. Aware that Otabek must've caught the reaction, he composes himself the next second. "I don't know them."

"I figured," Otabek replies sarcastically, "Just by the way, this guy, Williamson, thought you were kidnapped by gangsters of the neighbouring turf, and wanted you dead."

And then, for the first time, Yuri looks up, as Otabek watches those green eyes go wide again - this time in sheer disbelief, as if he has been betrayed by the one person he thought wouldn't. The stone cold eyes turn glassy, vulnerable under the bulb light; as they look down at the floor again, this time not with defiance but an odd kind of surrender - and some why, it kills Otabek a little.

"No one is coming for you, Yuri."

He doesn't say a word. He probably won't say a word again.

"Yuri, you're more than what you think you are. I want to help you. And I want you to trust me."

"Why?" Even as he demands, Yuri Plisetsky sounds broken. Devastated. And it seems he indeed wants to know. It's curious, what business can a policeman have with a street level thug without a lawyer, without information, perhaps without any legal guardian or anyone to care for?

Otabek wishes Yuri had looked up when asking that question. Because the answer was too obvious.

Because Yuri Plisetsky had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier.

* * *

Eee review!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

* * *

Being a nurse at the State Hospital has its set of perks, but Natasha Martin likes her day job. She's punctual, and well-liked amongst her colleagues, and lives for praise from her seniors, even it means she has to drive an extra mile. Like today, when she was telephoned in the morning to visit the hospital for an extra morning shift. She was told it's a special shift - on the third floor - apparently, there's some kind of police affair going on there, some kind of top-secret, and she's asked to do a round check at the makeshift isolated ICU for this really injured man who, from what she'd known from the regular gossip, also happens to be a hardcore criminal.

All of it gets her blood pumping with excitement. She feels like she's on Criminal Minds, sauntering back and forth like a detective, looking for clues. She casually walks to the reception, earphones on. It's empty; this early in the morning, it's not that surprising.

Wait.

She rips the earphones out. Something is ... odd. Everything is too quite to be normal.

As she paces into the hallway, each footstep echoes. She takes in a deep breath; she gets this ugly feeling that the two injured criminals have escaped, wonders whose balls the hospital authorities have to lick to have better security, when -

A shriek so loud that it practically tears through her larynx. It takes a long second to comprehend it's her own.

It – it can't be. There's blood everywhere. Splattered on the wall like paint, dried into lumps, streaked across the bench by the wall, dribbling along the metal, making a trail on the white tiles. Her stomach churns; unable to hold back, she vomits out the bile, it's horrifying and she doesn't even know yet where it sources from... she thinks she's about to faint.

Curiosity gets the better of her. She limps, slowly following the trail, her heart almost thudding out of her chest. It leads to a dead end of another wall. It's almost like a trap. There's a copper statue and beside it -

She stops at the legs; she doesn't want to look further. There's a bigger pool of blood - her breath turns heavier and shallower - there's a huge bloody mark on the wall, the kind of mark when you smash a watermelon against a hard surface, and just like that she knows what happened to the corpse lying in front of her but she doesn't want to see, she doesn't want to guess...

Tap.

Someone is right behind her. Someone - right - behind - her - someone is right behind -

It's a man. He's over six feet - no, seven feet tall - broad, haggard, wearing an ill-fitting hospital gown that definitely isn't his - his square jaw and bulging, raging, eyes glaring down at her like a cowering, trembling insect he can crush with his thumb. His hand is caked with blood, thick, coagulating blood still dripping from his little finger, dripping to the floor with a sickening splotch.

"Run," he thunders; she screams, but at this point she has lost her voice, "Run, and don't look back until you are out of this city."

* * *

He had been dozing off in a class again.

He'd have been graced if his series of unfortunate events stopped at that point, but no, he had been drooling, his palm that had been supporting his head slipped out of his grasp and his chin banged right onto the table - that isn't the worst part - his free arm reached up in the air in a reflex motion, making it look like he has to ask a question.

"Mr. Katsuki? Have you?"

And now the whole class is staring at him. Has he what?

No amount of digging his face into his scarf is going to help the colour that is rising steadily up his cheeks. The professor stopped to look, and their eyes met; Yuuri feels his heart pop out of his mouth. He nervously scans around the classroom - an optional class means less familiar faces, more morbid curiosity. "Uh-er, uhm," he clears his throat, leaps to his feet when the professor begins to inch towards his chair. He senses a big lecture incoming, and this will be the number two of the day...

Somebody sitting right behind him tugs at Yuuri's jumper and slips a note between his fingers. He grabs it, but before he can even read what it is about the professor somewhy assumes it's for him and low-key snatches it out of Yuuri's hands. Yuuri isn't sure if he's supposed to thank heavens for his drowsy self having nulled instincts that he didn't flinch ten metres across the room or upon the window ledge at the sudden ambush, or curse the deep pits of hell for actively progressing into deeper and deeper shit with every passing minute.

"Myth, patronage and Christian landscape in Viking sculpture... that is fast, how did you come up with this?" The professor's big, grey eyes meet his again, but this time they're softer. Then he lets out a short laugh, and Yuuri thinks it's safe to believe he's only asking in good humour.

For the lack of a better response, Yuuri chuckles along.

"Good work, Mr. Katsuki. I'll look forward to reading your paper," he pats him on the back and goes back to the podium, and Yuuri lets out a giant sigh of relief, thumping back into his seat.

Then he turns to his saviour in the backseat, a goofy tired grin to patch up for his disappointment with his own self. "Thank you so much - "

It's Victor. Again. That is, unless he's hallucinating. This is an optional class. For Sophomores. What is a Medieval Arts major Freshman doing here? Sitting-in, Yuuri, use your head. A more important question will be, why do his nerve impulses start short-circuiting every time he lays his eyes upon that pale face and silver hair, rendering him immovable for five whole seconds, what with that stupidly gaping mouth?

"Hi," Victor chimes in, "I remember you."

"Thank you... for that," he stutters lowly. He slides Victor back the slip of paper, "Here's your topic."

"You can keep it," he says, kindly (is it weird that Yuuri notices his mouth resembles a cutesy heart when he smiles and speaks?), "I was just attending for fun. Actually, not. Joined late and I was lagging, so the prof adviced me to attend some of the optional classes to get a better hang of things..."

"Oh," is the only reply Yuuri's half-blank brain can think of. Lagging. Surely, Yuuri can relate. Only this morning he had to take fifteen minutes of Mechanics professor Cialdini's wailing about how his star student has been losing his shine and that if Yuuri keeps being off the mark this way he should forget about his letter of recommendation into the Ivy League. Well, Yuuri concedes. He did have a point.

He needs to be off his self-imposed night duty to make sure he catches up with his studies. What a pain, there is never a thing called the best of both worlds, is there...

Maybe that ice guy can do the job for a week, although as good as his intentions seemed to be it's a little too early to entrust him with that big of a responsibility. Plus, he seemed somewhat of a goof -

"What's your name?" Victor asks all of a sudden, and Yuuri snaps out of his trance. The class has been dispersed, and Victor is already through packing his stuff.

"Yuuri, Yuuri Katsuki," he mumbles, grabbing his things and shoving them into his bag. "Yours? Sorry, I mean, it just popped out, I know your name -"

"Victor," he says, chuckling, as he holds out his hand, "Victor Nikiforov." Yuuri shakes it.

"Nice to meet you... again, Victor," he utters. Suddenly his mind flies off the bars and he imagines what might happen if they become good friends and Victor discovers the room filled with his posters back at Yuuri's family home in Japan. Yuuri has to physically jerk his head to bring it back to track.

"Do you have a class now?"

"Yeah, I have a th-theory class," he explains.

"Your schedule is kind of packed, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he says, assuring Victor as subtly as possible that it's the only reason he keeps turning him down, "Actually, Wednesday's free."

("There is no reason Victor would need that information, Katsuki.")

"That's great, I mean, I need to check my schedule, and if I'm free too, you can show me around, right?"

Show him around? When Yuuri glances up, he finds Victor at the door. He half-expects him to leave, but it seems more likely that Victor is just waiting up for him, so he slings his bag over his shoulder and clumsily trudges along. For a minute they just walk in silence, Victor's eyes frequently stopping upon the frames in the hallway, and Yuuri lost in thought. Show him around? Why Yuuri, though? He's Victor Nikiforov, he must've made a ton of friends already. Fraternities must be inviting him over; the clubs must be hunting him down.

"I don't know a lot of people around here," adds Victor, "I was -"

There is an abrupt interruption: a group of girls literally hop into the scene from nowhere (or maybe from the backdoor to the canteen) and horde in for a picture with Victor. There's a hush and a huddle, and although Victor happily obliges, Yuuri thinks there's something very fake about his smile this time... well, not long before one of the girls hands over her cellphone to Yuuri and makes him take about thirty-five in every angle possible.

"Wow," Yuuri sighs, watching them wander off to the very direction they came from, "You'd think they caught E.T going home." Then his eyes catch Victor's and both of them burst into peals of laughter.

"Thirty-five," Victor snorts.

"I counted too," Yuuri pulls his glasses down and wipes off the tears leaking at the corners of his eyes, "I wonder if I'll get camera courtesy when these flood Facebook tonight."

"Are you on Facebook?"

"My friend made one for me, but I don't go online much."

"Hey, same! My friend made one for me too. Under a different name, of course."

It comes to Yuuri's notice that his heart has been palpitating all this while. His jumper sure is way too warm for his comfort, what with all the heat radiating around his neck and the breakfast flipping in his stomach. He takes in a long breath, and opens his mouth for a change of subject when -

"Victor!"

Damn, their moment of peace just keeps getting breached time and again. A little irked, Yuuri turns to see who it is this time, because Victor is staring over Yuuri's shoulder, his eyes brightened into shining blue orbs.

About six feet tall, bleached blond hair in an undercut, stubble on the chin, John Lennon glasses and a very distinct way of standing - Yuuri is pretty sure he has seen this guy somewhere before. Wait, wait a minute, isn't this - holy shit - isn't this Swiss star skater Christophe Giacometti?

A long time back, Yuuri used to keep track of their on-field rivalry - well, not really rivalry since Chris hasn't been able to dethrone Victor even once, as far as Yuuri can recollect - going as far as fighting off Giacometti fans on online forums. But it's not like he's curious about Victor's personal life anymore, or it's not like he can stop Phichit when he starts gushing excitedly of the recent media scoops about some kind of heat going on between the two.

It's not like he cares. Yes, Victor has been his idol, but he's still a celebrity, a god on an untouched pedestal. Yes, he adores him, but there has always been that wall between them... it's not like he has a deep, personal crush on him. It's not like that.

(Somewhere inside Yuuri's head, a little guy in black spandex and a polymer helmet-like mask - much like the one he looks like at night - sniggers. There's no point denying; out of him and the anxious, self-deprecating wallflower, no-name-vigilante is the more honest one.)

So... is Christophe Giacometti - is he Victor's boyfriend?

"Chris!" Victor runs up to the man, "You did turn up!"

"Anything for you, my man," Christophe lightly punches him in the arm.

From the looks of it, it seems they are pretty engrossed in each other's company. Yuuri believes his journey has struck the end and it's time for him to slip out of the scene. He's getting late for class and it's not like Victor's going to notice his absence anyway.

"Yuuuuri! Are you leaving?" It's Victor, defying his expectations as usual.

"Uh, yeah, I got my class -"

"Wait up," Victor jogs back to him, and then drags him along to Christophe, who's certainly eyeing them (him?) with interest. "Yuuri, this is Chris," Victor introduces them to each other, "Chris, this is Yuuri, my new friend."

Ba-dump. New friend.

"Hi, Yuuri," Chris pats him on the shoulder. Thankfully, it's not as awkward as Yuuri thought it'd be.

"I won't hold you up anymore," Victor grins, (he had dragged him along a minute ago and technically they're still holding hands; when the realisation strikes Yuuri, he gulps down a pterodactyl screech and flinches his hand out of Victor's loose grasp - and of course, regrets it immediately, whatever happened to acting cool and being friends, casual friends bro-fisting each other...) letting him go.

"I guess I'll see you guys... sometime later," Yuuri smiles nervously, quite certain that beads of sweat have already started dotting up his forehead as he trots into the canteen passageway, his thumping heart never giving him a break.

Hell, Yuuri leads two lives. At least one of them should be boring.

* * *

"That is one nice looking ass."

Victor rolls his eyes; he ought to laugh at the comment, but instead he feels slightly offended at Chris gazing after Yuuri Katsuki's steadily pacing form trying to find a way out through the crowd. "Chris, can you not."

Chris turns to Victor with a raised, amused eyebrow and a crooked shit-eating grin. "I see."

"What?" Victor asks innocuously.

"Sparks flying."

"Sparks flyi- no, no," Victor chuckles as if it's the most ridiculous thing he has heard today, "He's just a friend. He's not even in my class, he -"

But Smug McSmuggy's grin keeps getting wider and wider with every word he utters, so Victor looks around for more solid conviction. "D'you want to know who I'm actually pining over? I met him last night. Let's get a place to sit, I have the whole afternoon off, I'll give you every little detail."

Chris being the kind of enabler he is, it didn't need much deliberation over the fact that they needed to chill at some posh place for their first meet in six months. They choose a restaurant not too far from campus, ordering two pints of beer and a light snack to go with ("Yakov asked me not to get out of hand with the delicacies if I'm really considering a comeback next season," Victor tells a downcast Chris over the menu card), before Victor elaborates upon his escapade last night.

By the end of which, Chris looks... confused.

"So, basically, you got five minutes with him and then he shot you down?"

Victor does a double take. "Shot me down? It wasn't like I was asking for his hand in marriage."

"But he rejected you."

He sighs dreamily across the space, his face in his palms, elbows upon the table. "Just made him all the more attractive."

"Wait, Victor, consider this. This guy, he must be someone like you. I mean, he must have an ordinary life as well. What if he has a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, you know...?"

Oh, right. But the solution is simple.

"I'll ask him next time," Victor tells him in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the masked man lives next door. "In fact I'll ask him tonight."

"What about your getup? Are you going to wear that filthy ski mask again?"

Victor slams his head into his arms upon the table, shooting death glares at the blond man across him. "Well, aren't we Mr. The-glass-is-half-empty."

Chris smirks. "Okay, but still?"

"I don't know... I'll figure something out."

"Better hide the hair. It's very distinct. You don't want a silver-haired guy in a mask and a leotard hanging around the same week Victor Nikiforov crashes in the city to complete his degree."

"Leotard, huh? That choice of costume just screams you."

"I know right? If there's ever an oddball in a see-through leotard, it won't be a hard guess," Chris winks, downing the last of his beer, "And what about the voice?"

"He used a pitch-distorting mic."

"And you?"

"I tweaked it a little bit."

"Like Batman?"

"As in, made it shriller. It's not a big deal, I had a major whim of wanting to be a Soprano when I was a teenager, so I'd enrolled in a training course. I still remember some of the hacks. Man, was Yakov pissed when I asked him if I could sing for my SP that year..."

Chris checks his watch, apparently a little tipsy from the beer, "Shoot, I'll have to run back in half an hour. But it's an interesting thing you've got there. It's like online dating, you never know if the person's ninety years old or picks his nose or has two heads."

Victor narrows his eyes at him. "I think he'd have been quite easy to spot in a crowd if he had two heads."

"I was kidding, Victor. But imagine this, you're there kicking ass with him everyday and all you know that he can be that boring professor you hate or this guy sitting at the counter or ... or he can be your cute nerdy friend I met in the morning."

"Are you talking about Yuuri?"

"Was that his name?"

Victor has got to be knocked out of his senses to actually allow his mind consider this scenario. Yuuri Katsuki, huh? The boy with that adorable chequered jumper and stunted fashion sense, carrying a bag around that he latches up from the front so that it doesn't fall off, who never misses a class, who turns into a nervous wreck every time he speaks (although, he was a low-key deadpan snarker today), who looked like a deer caught in the headlights and dropped a box of glass items at the mere sight of him... can he even be - no, if there's a nuclear holocaust and Yuuri Katsuki is the last surviving person on earth, it's only then if someone tells Victor he's the super-agile Eros incarnate masked vigilante that Victor'll even get his head around that concept.

"Half a million people in the city, and you meet an average of seven per day," Victor jumps to his feet and pushes his chair back; as a wave of dizziness hits his head, he grins, "so let's take a walk around and bump into some actual possibilities."

* * *

"Quit staring at me, bitch."

The moment of contact is broken and Yuri Plisetsky's fierce green eyes dig into the floor again as he sat crouched into the chair he usually sits on every time he's brought to the interrogation room.

"Quite a filthy mouth you've got there." It's true that Otabek has been gazing at him for some while now, studying his features and antics - nothing much discovered, except that one of the boy's feral eyes is almost always behind streaks of blond hair (sometimes he tugs them behind his ear, sometimes he just lets them fall as they will), and that he often sniffs and sounds like an angry cat - but Otabek likes to call this act a strategic method to make the suspect uncomfortable and confess faster. "Would you like a coke?"

"I'd like a smoke."

"You're too young to smoke."

"Then no, thank you." The false gratefulness comes seething from under his teeth.

"By the way, I must tell you, you're gonna be appointed a lawyer tomorrow. It's either going to be someone young like you or someone at the verge of retirement. In any case, don't make 'em cry."

"Why're you so hell-bent on helping me? If I'm fucked, let me be."

"Why are you so hell-bent on helping people who don't give a shit about you?"

Yuri opens his mouth to argue (or swear), but then changes his mind.

"I thought so," Otabek sighs, "Tell me something, the higher-ups, do they know your face?"

"I can tell you're new. If you'd known anything about the mafia, you'd have known that the minute I step out of here free someone's gonna blow my brains out and bury my body in the pavement and cement it over. You either die or you die bad. Vouching for loyalty means nothing."

His words make Otabek's stomach lurch even as he shifts in his seat uncomfortably, somehow managing to pretend he still has an upper-hand over the broken teenager sneering at him across the table.

Yuri continues. "Look at you, all distraught now. You think too good of this world. Sorry to burst your bubble, but that's the truth. In fact..."

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

Otabek's breath shakes. "What is it?"

Yuri huffs, and his nostrils flare at the moment of indecision. "Tch. Okay, I know in near future I'm going to regret saying this... but... I was never loyal to the mafia... some of us, we were... we were actually planning to betray the mafia. Williamson was involved, I know you've caught him too... if you don't believe me, you can check with him."

"Williamson sold you out to the other gang."

"I don't - you're - you're lying."

"I'm not."

"I know."

And there it is again - that vulnerable, betrayed expression - which leaves Otabek in a nasty fix: one half of him wants to protect the boy and the other half is constantly chastising him for allowing himself to get more and more involved with his shenanigans, to not be able to toughen up to his suspects although his outer appearance might suggest otherwise, to get worked up at the thought of this boy falling in trouble.

"Then why won't you give names to the police? What you wanted to do and what you ended up doing... they aren't mutually exclusive."

"Because I fucking hate the police!" Yuri barks, eyes narrowing down into that of a wounded, dangerous animal. "Useless, useless lot. They all just..."

"Why did you tell me, then?"

He looks away, as if he doesn't want to answer it. "You're... different."

"... In what sense?"

"Hey, I told you, I already regret telling you all of this, okay!" he screams, but calms down almost instantaneously, "You're different because you're daft. You're stupid enough to not look at me like I'm something disgusting. I've been asking you outrageous questions and you've been stupid enough to answer them. You're stupid enough to try and help me. You gettit? You're stupid."

"Wow. I'm not sure if I'm to feel honoured or offended."

To Otabek's surprise, the boy's lip curls up into a smile. Darn it, maybe it's the air-conditioner that's malfunctioning, because Otabek suddenly has this weird need to adjust his collar to relieve some of the heat emanating from his neck. Yuri Plisetsky throws a shade. "Maybe you should -"

"Otabek!"

The blasts open without warning and Officer Babicheva's scream reverberates inside the soundproof room. She appears shaken, strands of her hair are sticking up at odd angles; she is panting as if she just ran up ten flights of stairs. Yuri Plisetsky makes a slight turn of head at the sudden chaos, his eyebrows raised but eyelids droopy, apparently unaffected, even as Otabek leaps to his feet and runs to the door.

"What happened?" he asks urgently. He knows Mila Babicheva; she is the annoyingly chill antithesis to the hyper J.J Leroy most of the time - while Leroy turns the place upside-down if the coffee machine stops working, she's the kind to not blink an eye even if petty thieves gang up together and break out of the lock-up marching to the tunes of Queen.

"Go to J.J's office immediately. He's totally flipped out," she pulls out a handkerchief and dabs it over her sweat-clammed forehead. "The suspects from the Southwest drugs case - someone killed them in broad daylight. The guarding officer, two of the staff are dead too. A nurse went missing. It's a massacre."

* * *

Maybe since Victor just bragged of a make-believe statistic about an average person bumping into seven people per day, the Gods above decided upon playing a practical joke on him because it seems he keeps bumping into Yuuri Katsuki seven times a day instead.

Victor sees off Chris and as his car zooms off into the distance and out of his sight, he walks back to campus. He thinks he'd spend some time reading, or maybe structuring out his disguise for the night. On one hand he wants to be as careful with his identity as that guy is, on another he just wants to rip the metaphorical mask off and tell him who he is. Yes, the latter is insane.

The other guy will never take him seriously, and he doesn't even want to imagine the media assault. Also, ISU will freak out, won't let him compete ever again, even if he proves to them a hundred times over that none of his powers affects his performance (except, when he scrapes his knee, he doesn't bleed more than a second, god knows how no one ever noticed it). Yakov will be so pissed. Then again, when is he not.

Victor's at the gate when the sky growls and it begins to rain. It's so abrupt and rough it seems like a cloudburst, even as Victor shelters his head with his bag and his shoes unwillingly splash into the new-formed puddles on the pavement while trying to edge past the people running helter-skelter around, looking for a respite. The university bus stop is close, and he makes a run for it.

It's not even five minutes when he watches Yuuri Katsuki hurtle into the place, soaked from tip to toe all while shielding his bag in his arms. The bus-stop is quite packed now that the rain has grown heavier. He jostles for space and slips to a corner, rests his bag against an empty seat, and a surge of panic booms across his face as soon as he opens it.

"Hello, hello, Phichit," he yells into the phone against the pitter-patter of the rain, "Can you hear me? Hello? Yes... hey, you in the flat, right? I think I've lost my keys..."

Without realising, Yuuri takes off his glasses and wipes his face against his soggy sleeve, then pushes back his wet hair, and Victor thinks the snack at that restaurant must've been two days old because something is flipping inside his stomach.

"Eh, you're at the Embassy office?!" Yuuri exclaims, "That's at the other side of the town! ... No, the landlord lost his set six months ago... yeah, I'm stuck in the rain too... no, it's okay, it's fine Phichit-kun, I guess I'll chill at Starbucks... no, I'm not drenched or anything... good luck with the visa thing, okay - okay, bye... I'll see you soon."

He puts the phone back in his bag and is on his way separating the wet clingy scarf from his neck when Victor approaches him.

"Yuuri! Hi!"

Yuuri turns, and his face breaks into the softest of smiles. "H-hi."

"My god, you're soaking wet."

"Oh," he shrugs and dusts at his shoulders, as if he can shake the water off at will, "it's okay."

"You'll catch a cold if you don't get into a dry set of clothes. Should I call you a taxi? Where d'you live?"

"Half hour by bus," he replies, still awkward, trying not to meet the eye (his eyes are a curious colour of chocolate and Victor has no idea why he made that observation), "But I, kind of, lost my keys. And... my roommate's not at home, so..."

Suddenly, it's like Victor has a Eureka moment, and his eyes brighten as he suggests, "Come to my flat. It's right about the corner."

" - Uh, Victor, it's okay, it'll be too much trouble - "

"Yuuuuri. Why d'you keep rejecting me? I'm so wounded I don't think I'll ever recover," he pouts and sighs in mock-resentment, even as Yuuri looks like he isn't sure whether to laugh at it or panic some more, "I have a really cuddly poodle, if that makes things easier."

He's cute, really cute, but in an odd way - he'd be considered an average looking Asian by conventional standards (except those arched eyebrows, wow) - his eyes resist contact but at the same time are mysteriously inviting, they're so soft and yet sometimes they've got that keen gaze that gets Victor all dizzy and nervous. What's all that about? Also, the way the tip of his nose keeps blushing now and then, and how he keeps rubbing over compulsively; Victor never knew seasonal allergies can be so damn attractive.

Finding other people attractive is not exactly betraying his high-flying night-time vigilante buddy, is it? It's not his fault if he can't help it.

Yuuri giggles this time, scratching the back of his head, the bag in his arms cradled in a manner as if he has something inside that his life depends on.

"Well, I guess I can't say no thrice."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

* * *

Katsuki Yuuri always thought he's going to die by being sarcastic at the wrong time.

Katsuki Yuuri now knows that he's going to die by being unable to say no thrice.

They're, after all, character flaws.

So there he is, in Victor's huge-ass apartment, in the unprepared guest room, still in his soppy clothes, staring at the hanger that held a dry pair that Victor had graciously offered him two minutes ago. The mattress still has the plastic packaging so Yuuri assumes it's okay to sit there while unbuckling his belt and giving out long sighs. He wants to take on the armed thug mob he tackled all at once three months back again than deal with this situation.

There's no point kidding himself. His heart is pounding because he's _happy_. Yes, he's terrified, because it's Victor, but instead of being the icy wind that always soared past him and threw him off his balance with his brilliance, Victor's being that soft breeze that decided to stop by and consider a friendship. And Yuuri's really happy about it, more so than anything else.

He changes into the track pants. They're oversized for him, and he has to roll up the bottoms. He glances across at the dry sweatshirt and spaces out again; it's dark blue, made of extremely soft (and, he guesses, expensive) material that makes him want to squish it against his cheek forever, and... and it faintly smells of Victor's cologne...

 _Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic, don't panic -_

There's a click and a creak and no warning. "Yuuri! Are you - oh, shit, I'm _so sorry_ -" Victor slams the door shut immediately and calls out from the other side, "You were in there for a long time, I thought you were done. _I'm so sorry!_ I should've knocked!"

 _Definitely panic, definitely panic, definitely panic, definitely panic -_

Thank heavens for his powers that his instincts took charge and Yuuri literally axels himself to the corner of the room at the instant or else Victor would've caught him in the act. All Victor got is probably the flash of his bare back and somehow, that was still enough to freak out both of them. Yuuri slips on the sweatshirt, his ears grown so hot he might feel better if he cuts them off. This is _so_ not good for his health.

He reaches out for the knob and pulls the door ajar; Victor is still standing against the wall, holding two steaming mugs of coffee, an apologetic smile on his face. "Sorry, I took so long," Yuuri scratches the back of his head. He knows he looks like a sack in these baggy clothes and hopes his ears aren't beet-red anymore. Not that it matters. It's not like Victor's ever going to find _him_ attractive.

"Here," Victor hands him a mug, "Can you wait for a minute? I'll just go next door and get my dog."

And with that, Yuuri is left alone sipping a heavily sweetened coffee, looking at the mess that this place is right now. Retrospectively, he should've said no to anything caffeinated, given he hasn't slept in the last two days and yet can't feel a semblance of drowsiness. He walks around and settles on the couch in the living room, skipping over the trail of cartons which look like they're nailed like gravestones on the floor, a laundry dump right beside it, and a stack of Gatorade bottles and pizza boxes to the left. Victor _does_ need some help and discipline in tidying up this place.

His phone starts to ring. He turns to it. A video call from Phichit.

"Yuuri!" Phichit's blurred, lagging imprint of a face heaves a giant sigh of relief, "I'm still stuck here. The receptionist said I'm going next though. This is so boring! I wish you were here!"

He grins, "If it hadn't been raining, I would've been there, Phichit."

"By the way, are you at someone's place? This doesn't look like Starbucks to me."

His heart does a triple flip. "Y-yeah, I was uh- kind of - uh, at a friend's place..."

"Oh," Phichit nods to himself, likely a little confused, "Oh, and hey, we need to pitch in to buy something for Guang-Hong's birthday -"

They're interrupted by a loud " _Yuuuuri!_ I'm back!" from behind, followed by a gentle woof of a dog. Yuuri knows that despite it raining cats and dogs and obstructing the signals every two minutes, Phichit's sharp eyes can't have mistaken the voice and the silver bunch of hair shuffling in the background.

Yuuri knows this because before he can utter another word Phichit's grin has widened like a Cheshire cat. "Oh my go-"

" _I'llcallyoubacklater_!" he hangs up and drops the phone into the pocket of his tracks. For the sake of Phichit's sanity, since an extended conversation in this direction without some face-to-face explanation will involve some hyperventilation, rolling on the floor, making banners and sending out preempted wedding invitations at the Embassy office.

* * *

"Are you okay?" Victor furrows his eyebrows at Yuuri - his face seems so flustered, almost scared - and as Yuuri nods with a deep breath, he bends down and unleashes his poodle, nuzzling his forehead against hers while she wags her tail happily, "Yuuri, meet Makkachin."

Victor doesn't know if he's witnessed such a fleeting range of emotions from a person before - from being caught off-guard to confusion to plain delight at seeing his pet in a span of a moment - and somehow Makkachin senses it even faster as she huffs and launches herself in the air to pounce on Yuuri, tackling him down to the floor, licking at his face excitedly.

Yuuri laughs, ticklish, scratching under her ears while they play. It's almost as if Victor's the third person in the scenario, and if he hadn't been lying to himself, he'd say there's a twinge of jealousy bobbing at his temple right now. That'd be a first though. "Now, now, Makka, be a good girl," he chuckles at them.

"It's okay," Yuuri pats on her head after she's calmed down, her tail still wiggling, "She reminds me of an old friend I had."

"Sorry, Yuuri, she's a gentle dog, she doesn't jump on people usually."

"It's okay, Victor. She didn't hurt me," he smiled, before turning to Makkachin again, "We were just having fun, weren't we? Didn't we have fun?" He boops his nose on hers and she woofs in approval. Victor has never seen anyone bond this fast with Makkachin before; it's almost as if Yuuri is some kind of a dog whisperer.

"Maybe it's because I'm wearing your clothes," Yuuri replies, as if he just read Victor's mind.

"My stuff was shipped two days ago, so everything's still kind of a mess," Victor explains, watching Yuuri collect the spare packaging paper around to make room on the couch, crumble them into a ball and aim it over into the dustbin.

"I can help you clean this up, if - if you want."

"Really?" His eyes expand into large hopeful blue orbs again, before he sighs, "I can't believe I'm putting you through this."

"No - I mean, it'll be fun, it's more like my idea of fun," Yuuri says, "Tomorrow, maybe?"

"Tomorrow it is."

Yuuri walks up to the window to check on the rain; it's still thundering outside. Victor thinks there must be _something_ they can do to pass the time; his laptop's out of charge, there's no food in the fridge (they can order some but he doesn't have the heart to put someone through that trouble in this kind of weather). They can play catch with Makkachin, but that'll guarantee some unintentional wreckage in such a small space. Wait, he has the TV working, but he hasn't chosen the package yet, so it's probably just a bunch of news and ad channels.

Reluctantly, he switches it on, and flips through the channels. Yes, diaper commercials, washing machine commercials, news, and news, and news -

"Eh, Victor, can I watch the news?"

He pauses. "Uhm, yeah, sure."

He ushers Yuuri to settle on the couch, but Yuuri stays put near the window, the mug to his lips, gazing at the TV, his eyebrows screwed into a frown, so deep into the news that one might think they're listing his lost property. He probably didn't even hear Victor speak over the sound; Victor wheels to see what is it that caught Yuuri's attention (the last time Victor found anything interesting was when an octopus straight-out predicted all the results of the football World Cup).

Apparently, it's about a mass-murder committed in a hospital this morning. The camera is trailing the footsteps of the reporter through the ward (most of the sides are blurred red), and there's a ' ** _SENSITIVE IMAGES_** ' warning popping at the bottom of the screen now and then.

"This is sick," Victor pushes his hair back in discomfort, "A _hospital_?"

And then all of a sudden they switch back to the newsroom, pictures of two men flashing side by side, with some conversation about 'a threateningly expanding drug empire' going in the background. It switches to the reporter again, this time him shoving the microphone in the face of a police officer, who looks like he's trying too hard not to appear shaken on camera.

" - _The Detroit Police department officially assures you, we're going to catch the culprit as soon as possible,"_ the man tells them, " _The city is as safe as it always was. This is obviously some kind of a psychopathic crime, and we already have leads. We ask all citizens to exercise caution and inform the police about a man in a black helmet mask and black suit who has allegedly been punishing criminals to his own brand of vigilantism. We strongly suspect it is his doing, and we have launched an arrest warrant and a reward of 10000 dollars for any information on him."_

Wait, what? It can't possibly be - _him_ \- no, he's only been saving people - Victor saw it with his own eyes - he feels the rage surging through him like a white-hot wire, - _it can't be -_ but then again, how much does he even know about that masked vigilante -

His trance is broken by a loud clunk of Yuuri's coffee mug. Yuuri has placed it on the sill, his back to the wall, and expression unreadable. "Are you alright?" Victor reaches out instinctively, and even as Yuuri nods, he thinks it must be the disturbing images on TV that have affected the boy. Damn these news channels, they'll show whatever the fuck they can for a cent of sensationalism these days.

As if to break the deadlock between a clueless Victor and a lost Yuuri, a phone rang out. It's Yuuri's, "I'll be there, yeah - yeah, I'll tell you, I said I'll tell you everything, it's not a big deal, okay... okay bye." He then turns at Victor, a deep blush etched across one cheek to another even as he shyly looks up from his glasses, "I think I should leave. My roommate's got into the flat and - and the rain's calmed down, I should take this chance to escape." With it he breaks into a grin.

And just like that, something in Victor wants to know what can possibly relax a tensed-up Yuuri in a matter of seconds, what can bring that deep of a blush on his face. Is it - is it this roommate of his? Is he just a roommate? Or are they, like, living together, or something? Or is it something that roommate was talking about? Will it be too intruding to ask? Yes, yes, of course, it'll be, he doesn't know why Victor even considers something so inane.

"Okay," he breathes, "I'll see you tomorrow, Yuuri. Don't forget, cleaning day!"

Yuuri chuckles, as he grabs his bag up that's still leaving soggy trails all over the place, and trots to the door. "Bye Victor. Bye Makkachin. I won't forget. Cross my heart."

As soon as the door closes, Victor lets out a long, long sigh.

* * *

"What the fuck? J.J issued a warrant against that sexy vigilante? Just like that?!"

Otabek believes that _sexy_ isn't the most appropriate adjective for Officer Babicheva to use during the cigarette break in such a murky atmosphere, with five brutal murders upon their heads and no clue whatsoever, sitting at the open balcony of the common room, blowing out a whirl of smoke at the dull rainy sunset, but he cannot care less to correct her for his head is still much too occupied with the ugly spat he had at J.J's office earlier in the day.

"He said it's just a method to distract the people and not send the city in a state of panic, and he'll withdraw it once he gets some _real_ evidence." It's a corporal, trying to worm his way through the half-dead public computer. "J.J's nuts. Everyone knows that."

Otabek concurs. Keeling on a low chair in the corner, his mind still flashing J.J's antics (because stabbing a pen into the table is going to solve the case for them), sucking out any energy he might've had to participate in a social conversation. Not that he ever had a lot.

"Well, then, this is a new level of crazy," Mila Babicheva persists, "The vigilante guy's sooo nice! I was once sent to a bank robbery scene where he bundled the three robbers together and dropped them at my feet, with a sticky note on one that said he liked my haircut!"

In Otabek's case, the vigilante might've not left that good of an impression ramming the SUV into the tree, but he certainly performed a good Samaritan act pulling the criminal out of the mangled car and trying to resuscitate him. Job choppily done, but done, nonetheless.

The corporal gives her swooning form a bewildered glare. "Doesn't matter. He's gotta go behind bars one day. You can't take the law in your hands like that."

She throws a derisive laugh. "I'd like to see them try. The guy zooms in and out like a phantom."

"Choose a side, sergeant."

"I think we're on the same side, Tabby. I _know_ why J.J did this. Nothing fuels his wet dreams more than the idea of slapping handcuffs on our city hero and calling it _J.J style._ Huh."

It will be a fair guess on Otabek's part that perhaps everyone in the department, whatever the rank is, low-key wants to punch J.J, and Otabek himself has been gradually inching closer to the club. Hell, who is he kidding, he probably wants to be the president of that club.

 _"You can't do that, it doesn't make any sense!" Otabek proposed earlier, his eyes trailing the scattered files on the floor and brains having a hard time processing his partner's frustrated suggestions._

 _"I can, and I will," J.J announced pompously, failing to hide the fear that has crept into the frown lines on his forehead, "And you have to do what's necessary."_

 _"This is not a plan, this is a half-baked measure! Using the boy like that is literally throwing him into a pack of wolves. They are out for blood. We have already lost our main witnesses."_

" _The boy's just a rabid dog. In exchange, if we get our hands on somebody worthier, I don't see what the problem is."_

Well, that is the problem. J.J doesn't see what the problem is. J.J is deluded and self-obsessed and blind as a bat.

"I don't know who I'm feeling worse for," Mila sighs again, "me, who'll have to work undercover in a coffee shop, or that Plisetsky kid, who's surely gonna get killed amidst all the hoopla."

Otabek's head shoots up. Here's the plan J.J made: he's going to force Yuri Plisetsky into working for the police, at a certain coffee shop somewhere in the middle of the city - a place that Williamson confirmed as being a regular for public meets between the higher-ups of the mafia - and will need Yuri to identify them to the best of his ability. When Otabek voted a solid _no,_ J.J got his way out by saying he'd ensure someone will be looking over the boy, protecting him. Just that Otabek didn't know it's _her._ She... doesn't seem like she cares.

"On the flip side," she chirps, "at least I'll get some good coffee. Thirteen complaints I've written about that wreckage of a coffee machine, and it still squirts out monkey poo."

* * *

Yuuri has a lot of things shuffling furiously in his mind right now, and the fact that he's got an arrest warrant on him is the least worrying of them all.

The thought of innocents dying, caught in the middle of what is probably an idiotic turf war, trudges like venom through him. His heartbeat accelerates and his throat tightens as if being strangled with a bike chain, and he has to stop at the gate for a while to a catch a breath. It's almost like a panic attack; dealing with blood and broken bones every night doesn't change that the idea of someone dying sends his nerves spiraling out of control, sends him into his chasm of irreversibly dark thoughts.

He's broken, after all. He was born broken.

When the watchman looks concerned, he chuckles and excuses himself, "I've been running for two blocks," and jogs towards the elevator.

He needs to catch these bastards. But with the warrant and a hefty price on his head, it'll be impossible to even steer close to that hospital.

 _Goddammit_ , he needs a starting point.

"EXPLAIN YOURSELF IMMEDIATELY!"

When Yuuri pulls the unlocked door to the apartment ajar, he doesn't expect any less of Phichit, but it still takes him some effort to bring out his laugh and send his worries fleeing to rear of his head.

Phichit is standing over the couple of boxes they have padded with cushions and covered with a bedsheet and proclaimed as a makeshift couch, his arms akimbo, his three hamsters upon his head and shoulders, looking down dramatically at his bespectacled friend against the fluorescent light like some Greek god descended on earth due to human folly.

"Explain. Yourself. Immediately," he repeats, folding his arms like an angry mum who wants to know where her kid hid the broken vase.

"Okay," Yuuri raises his hands in mock-surrender, "Calm down, and come down to earth."

And he does, jump-sitting on their 'couch'. "Tell me, tell me everything you know, like, right now. What the actual fuck? Was I in coma for seventy years? The second-last thing I know is that I found out from the college blog that Victor Nikiforov _might_ be joining here, and the next thing is I see you at _his_ apartment, in _his_ sweats that, by the way, is still drooping down your shoulder, messy hair and what not - _and through a call?!_ What is going on!?"

Yuuri rolls his eyes, throws his bag behind the door, and relaxes onto the mattress on the floor after another long, wet, sleep-deprived day. "It's nothing like that."

"Then what is it, Yuuri? Gold, Silver and Bronze want to know!" His hamsters, christened according to their colours.

"I got really soaked and Victor was just being a gentleman and offered me to come to his place for a change of clothes," he says, "Besides, I think he's dating." A certain sinking sensation follows up, and Yuuri isn't sure what it's about. Not like he ever expected anything.

"Oh," Phichit's face falls, "you really got me there for a sec. And also, Ciao Ciao called again."

"Again?"

"And again," he groans, "and again. He really wants you in that programme."

"Ugh, biomechanics isn't my thing. I have sent him a hundred mails already."

"Have you talked to him about it face-to-face?"

No, because if there's anything Yuuri is terrified of in this world, it'll be a confrontation. He's telling the truth when he says he isn't interested; he doesn't want to be a waste of space and effort there - it's a long-haul internship under Celestino in his research unit that, as far as he heard, is soon to be sponsored by a big company, and will require blood, sweat and tears of the interns even during night-time (when Yuuri's pretty preoccupied).

Also, he knows that his backing out will make Phichit's odds of making into the intern list better, and it's good that Phichit is unaware about it since the last thing Yuuri wants is to make it look like he's doing him a favour.

"So," Phichit starts again, "Who's the boyfriend?"

"Eh?"

"Victor, I'm talking about Victor, Yuuri."

"Oh, I don't know, Phichit, like you told me that Victor and Chris Giacometti are really close... and I think that's true."

Phichit furrows his eyebrows and looks at his face as if there's a fly on his glasses and he's planning to smack it down. "Wait, so you mean... you don't really know. You're gathering it from whatever we've heard from media scoops."

"...Yeah. But he did come to visit him."

"Did they look... more than friends?"

"Hard to tell."

"Well, then, let me get my crystal ball," Phichit utters dramatically, almost cartwheeling his way to his phone and back as he logs into his Instagram and does a certain shimmy that's perhaps supposed to mean he can't quite restrain his excitement (but given Yuuri's a dated dork who doesn't keep up with new memes, he can never be too sure), "hold up for a couple of hours and soothsayer Chulanont will declare whether or not Katsuki Yuuri and Victor Nikiforov are fated to be."

* * *

"Hey!" Victor yells out into the dark nothingness, "Are you close by? Black helmet? Nobody man? Sexy guy? _Eros_ man?"

What is he supposed to call him by?

In the sweltering humidity, his skin under the mask itches. Yes, Victor cut out a mask for himself - to be on the safe side with the identity dilemma - and realised he probably talks too much since the jaw area soon got really cramped and he had to snap it off. He paired it off with a hooded leather jacket; he thinks it goes well, it gives him ghost-hunter vibes.

Well, he _is_ literally hunting for a ghost. Victor thought it'll be a good idea to give the vigilante a heads-up about his arrest warrant (although he guesses it's become common knowledge by now). He's been travelling for the last couple of hours to every troublemaking spot in the city, even sketched out a mental map of all bad neighbourhoods, and yet vigilante guy is... nowhere.

He'd assume that the vigilante guy might be hiding from him, but discards it; anyone with a double life will have more important priorities. Maybe it's just a strange case of positioning. Maybe he was here a while ago and Victor missed it.

 _Ugh_ , he sighs at himself. He's so irrevocably deep in shit, chasing after two people, none of whom have shown a shred interest in him. Detroit is a city of so many firsts.

The pavement is sticky with the gravel and recent drizzle. It's around midnight; very few people on the street. Strike that, _no_ people on the street; the light from a single liquor store at the corner bouncing upon the shimmering wet concrete. If he concentrates, he can make out the soft buzz of insects, a winding out of a siren somewhere far away, and... and -

He fervently checks around. Nothing. Then breaks into a run. There are two thoroughfares ahead to the right; he takes one of them.

Did it sound like - like, _someone crying_?

There is something - someone - on the pavement, somehow leaning against the glass entrance of a closed-down store. It seems like a blob of colour from afar, but as Victor draws closer, he discovers a middle-aged man writhing on the ground, his arms reaching out in the air calling for help to an invisible higher power.

"Are you - are you okay?" Victor gasps, but the answer is painfully obvious; there are bruises on his neck, and an alarming pool of blood under his head.

Victor reaches out to cradle him up - or help in some manner - but as delirious as the man is from agony, he flinches, mumbling incoherently. "You need medical help right now," Victor chastises him, but the man continues to struggle against him.

"My... my daughter... please... they t-took her," he finally whispers, "th-they went ... he went that way... he... my child..."

"But you need to -"

"Please..." he croaks again, his glassy eyes pleading, "Please..."

Victor launches himself into action like a rocket, sprinting forth along the line of streetlights; the man won't let him help unless he grants his request. He doesn't even know what he's looking for - _daughter_... is she a child, an infant, or someone older? There's no trace of a soul on the road, no voices, no signs of a brawl; suddenly he can't even remember which part of the city he's in. Why aren't there any goddamn watchmen around? Why isn't there a single person to help? He calls an ambulance anyway, his eyes frantically searching for anything that resembles a girl.

Nothing. _Nothing._

He clenches his fists. He has to return to the man; he's wasted so much time already.

The man fluttering eyelids try to still themselves, as he gazes at Victor even as Victor looks away, almost with shame cursing at his own helplessness. He can't watch the hope in the man's eyes shatter, he can't take the tears dribbling down his face. All he can do is witness his breath slowly turning shallow, to the point of non-existence.

The man's trembling hand somehow manages to slip in a crumbled piece of paper into Victor's hand. It's a photograph of a girl, a bubbly ten-year old girl, with a teddy bear in her arms, smiling at it as if it's the only thing that matters.

"I'll find your daughter," Victor's surprised how grief-stricken he is that he hardly has an audible voice, "I... I promise."

A teardrop resists, and then rolls down the bridge of his nose. By the time he regains the courage to look back, the man's eyes are unblinking, lifeless.

When he was young, they told him the story of the Soldier and Death.

Victor clenches his fists so hard his nails draw blood. A thin spark flies out at the friction, churning a few fragile snowflakes that melt into droplets before they touch the ground. If only his powers hadn't been so useless. If only he had been stronger.

Or faster.

Or braver.

If only.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

* * *

It's only 12:00 p.m of the day and Yuri Plisetsky has to wonder how he's witnessing the last three seconds of his life painfully elaborated to infinity.

The ordeal began at around 7 a.m.

The day started begrudgingly. It's not like the police can do whatever they want of him and he'll be ready on his toes to cooperate. He abhors the police, he'll keep abhorring them with every breath he takes, and no amount of daft, helpful low-ranked intense-as-fuck-on-the-outside-and-soft-as-shit-on-the-inside officers can change that. This much is clear. And constant.

So the battle commenced. He's offered a fresh, clean set of clothes by that female officer _what's-her-name_ Babicheva, who later proceeded to tie his arms to the back of a chair when he struggled against her trying to wash and comb through his messy, knotted hair. She thought he'd be better-mannered if she bonded in Russian. He's pretty certain after their first conversation she's never going to attempt _that_ again.

He cast a glance at his wrists while rolling back the long dangling sleeves of the new shirt. They're still raw, bruised from the handcuffs. Not that it matters, he's used to that kind of pain. He kept to himself during the car-ride, his eyes staring fixedly outside the window, blocking out all the blabber from the officer. Apparently, he has to work in some kind of a shop, and will be right under her nose all the time. He still hasn't reached the end of it.

"Use this ground cinnamon on coffee grounds to reduce bitterness, sí?"

Turns out it's a dumb coffeehouse with a dumber name ( _Agápe_ , what the hell does that even mean, is it some lame attempt to sound smart and rhyme it with frappe? He doesn't know and doesn't want to either), and he has spent the last half an hour occasionally glancing at his old rusted watch and mechanically nodding at this odd Mexican lady teaching him how to handle a coffee machine.

Then she looked dispassionately at his grumbling state and assumed her efforts went to waste. "You watch and you clean today, chico. Señorita, ven acá, I show you my tray collection..."

"Don't forget why you're actually here," the Babicheva woman jacked her arm around his shoulder playfully; he shoved her off, and she laughed, following the Mexican woman out to the glass case of prized possessions right outside the door. He realised a second later the gesture probably wasn't that playful after all; her grasp was really strong, it was almost as if she was sending a message to not fuck with her since she can bench press him if she wants to.

That doesn't change that she's unobservant as shit. But he'll come to that later.

His eyes were sharp, looking for nooks in the plan. The coffeehouse had just opened, and there was only an old man sitting to the left of the big rock poster on the main wall, and another girl - perhaps about the same age as him - wiping the tables clean. The female officer and the Mexican woman were still visible from where he stood scrubbing the counter, and it'd take some time before he was actually able to slip out from the center of attention.

Because he was going to make an escape.

The police might think they had it easy because they could convince him he's safer inside the lock-up than he'd be if set free, but they've missed one very important point: he doesn't care.

After all that he's been through and yet survived, this was nothing. After everything, after Williamson's betrayal, after his _Dedushka_...

No, he wouldn't think about it. He'd promised himself. Now, especially, wasn't the moment. Thinking about _that_ day blurred all logic and sent waves of rage cascading down his veins, sent hot tears surging into his eyes, and he promised himself, he promised his _Dedushka_ he wouldn't cry until he had his revenge.

"Yuri!"

He narrowed his eyes at Babicheva waving at him through the glass barrier. She yelled, "You have a visitor!"

A visitor?

He tucked the rag onto the pocket of his apron, furrowed his eyebrows together even as he made a beeline to the door. His heart throbbed; he wasn't getting a good feeling about this - at this point, he couldn't trust anybody anymore - what if the Babicheva woman was paid off by the mafia, what if all of this was an elaborate plan, was just God's grand idea of playing hide-and-seek before he finally got him, what if the moment he came out of the door, he's -

When Yuri did come out of the door, he wasn't sure whether the huge sigh he just gave out sourced from relief or exasperation.

Well, _of course_ , who else could've his visitor been.

"You again?" Yuri huffed. _What a pain in the ass._

There he was, standing against his motorbike, sporting a leather jacket and the bike helmet still on his head (like a goof), thinking he was the god-sent embodiment of _intense_. Surely, he was here to do some kind of favour once again. He looked different today, though. If Yuri didn't know him, he'd have mistaken him for a leather-clad coffee-bingeing hippie teen. Maybe it's the lighting. Daylight and bright greens looked different from the gloomy greys of the interrogation room.

"Yes," the cop said, searching the inside of his jacket before he fished something out, "I've got this for you."

It was a phone. He shoved it in Yuri's hand, "It has my number saved on it. If you sense any trouble, call me immediately."

Gazing at the ground, toying a pebble with his shoe, Yuri mumbled against his will. " _Spasibo_."

"Huh?"

"Thank you."

The cop did a double-take at the first ever words of kindness popped from Yuri's mouth. "Oh," he fumbled, and then swung his leg over the seat and started his motorbike, "Well, I - I guess I'll see you... later then."

Damn it, Yuri didn't need this unnecessary pang of guilt. Once the cop set off into the highway, Yuri switched on the phone and scrolled through the contacts. There was only one: _Otabek Altin_. So that's what his name was. He wondered how he never noticed it during the questioning sessions.

With a spontaneous smack of a thumb, he clicked on _edit_ , and changed it to _Dumb Cop_. Then smirked. There was something very stupid and satisfactory about it.

And that was 8:30 a.m.

Three and half hours later, when he finally finds the female officer so engrossed in flirting over the counter with a customer that she doesn't so much as listen to what he asked her, he knows this might be his only chance to make the escape. He picks up the pudgy trash bags and makes his way along the narrow pathway through the small kitchen to the back exit, dumps them over at a corner, wears his shirt inside-out (the inside is bright orange, so he thinks it might help him hide), pulls out the band that held his ponytail and ruffles the hair, and goes for the run.

He has no place to run to, but he does have a rough sketch of where the criminal hotspots are, so once he's sure of which street he's on, he makes it a point to steer clear of them. Maybe he'll just roam around until the cops realise he's missing and eventually give up. Two cents that they'll assume the mafia got him already if don't find him before the sun goes down.

Having said that, he still hasn't got rid of that phone. He has tried, almost pulled it out of his pocket, almost aimed it over across that small pond in the public park, but didn't have the heart to...

What's wrong with him? He isn't supposed to be having a heart. He isn't supposed to be dealing with stupid, _stupid_ feelings.

And now that he's turning into a new lane, and then to a busier street, the phone stayed in his pocket like an extra weight, an extra emotion on his chest, an extra riddle that he cannot decipher, right up to the last three seconds.

He glances at his watch right before it happens - it's only 12:00 p.m of the day and Yuri Plisetsky has to wonder how he's witnessing the last three seconds of his life painfully elaborated to infinity.

It's the mafia - of course - as obscure as they can be on a moderately busy road in the middle of the day, amidst the several unaware civilians scattered around; he recognises them as soon as he sees the car making its way - but he knows too well there's no time to run, or get the phone out and make a call, or to negotiate, or to pray -

He still tries, the phone clasped in his sweaty palm, as he watches the car slow down across the path to the other side yet not stop; the glass pane is lowered and there's a pair of hands holding a gun, the next thing he knows is that he's staring into the barrel, at the silencer... one more second and it's over, they win, there shall be a bang and he'll be going out with a whimper, everybody who's known he existed would've been wiped off the face of the earth -

 _\- whoosh_ -

Blinding pain sears through him at his shoulder - his left shoulder - but -

He's on the ground now, his forehead touching the surface. He can smell the asphalt - he doesn't fall due to the impact of the bullet because nothing ever pierces him - instead it's something from the back - like someone climbing upon him - a split-second later there's the much awaited click of the silencer, and then an unexpected _clunk_ of... tin? He doesn't know because all of a sudden it's too dark to see and his face is under his arms, pressed against the concrete, and his arms are jammed under the weight of a person...

Finally, whoever that is, shifts himself (he can't feel breasts pressing into his back so he guesses it's a guy) off him, and Yuri blinks into the sunlight again.

"Shoot, I cracked my glasses," it _indeed_ is a guy, who is surprisingly calm after the hoopla as his biggest concern right then seems to be his spectacles lying at half a yard's length from them.

"What just happened?" Yuri looks around. He tries to move, but pain shoots up in his shoulder again. What's wrong with his shoulder? Right, when he fell, someone - by someone, he means this guy, this really confused guy who's dusting his clothes right now - pulled him down by his arm.

"I slipped on a banana peel," the guy tells him, casting a pathetic pout at his cracked glasses but putting them back on nevertheless, "Are you okay?"

Yuri can never be okay with this dubious, crazy shit going around him. Wait, let's check the surroundings. Yes, he was shot at - the bullet is lodged at this old wall behind them, there's rubble on the pavement. There's a - is that a lid of a trash can? - in the middle of the road right where the car was, amidst a sprinkle of broken glass, beside which lay the gun, that has now started to accumulate a curious crowd around it.

So, according to this guy, it's a miracle of a coincidence - this guy was opening a trash can when he slipped on a banana peel and grabbed onto the nearest object - in this case Yuri's arm - and fell off balance on him, accidentally saving him from the bullet, all while the trash lid went flying across like a frisbee that just _happened_ to hit the gunman hard enough that he dropped the gun and caused the car to zoom out of their sights.

 _Hell_ , it's even more absurd to think this had been done intentionally. So Yuri just... believes it. The pain in his shoulder is blocking out logic anyway. Plus, the guy, this Asian guy in glasses and a backpack and wearing what looks like a home-knitted sweater that mothers force down on their kids against their will, is perhaps not even aware that a bullet was shot two minutes ago right where his head is.

"You moron," Yuri grumbles in response, "you... you... probably dislocated my shoulder." And saved him from the bullet, but yes, that's how Yuri says _thank you_.

"I'm so sorry!" he reaches out to help him, but doesn't know how to approach, "Can you get up?"

Yuri's knees are a little cold from shock, but as long as his shoulder and arm are untouched, he thinks he can. "...Yes."

The guy holds out his hand for help, but Yuri swats it away, pulling himself up on his own, "Leave me alone, pig." He bites through the pain, but a groan escapes his throat. Every movement is making his shoulder worse.

Somewhy, Yuri's swearing bears no effect on him. He seems rather concerned. "You can't be left alone in this condition, and since I injured you, I'll take you to the doctor's as well," he explains it like a maths equation, a dumb smile on his face, "I'll call a cab now. And you're coming along, Mister uh - "

"Yuri," he grumbles, staring daggers into the ground, having left with no choice, "Yuri is my name."

"Really? My name is Yuuri too. Now c'mon."

Yuri stumbles after him. This hellish coincidence - or a grand joke of the universe - or whatever this is, has slid out of hand so far it's making his head spin. For real, he wants to yell. _What the fuck?_

* * *

"There you go, that should do it."

"Can you please shut the fuck up for a minute?"

It's the first time Yuri swears after the pain meds render his brains all floozy and unable to comprehend why everyone at the clinic is babying him and petting the giant white cast up his left arm hung on a sling. The doctor looks up from typing the prescription, slightly bewildered, even as Yuri's annoying namesake pats him on the good arm, grinning, "He's going through a phase."

" _Tch,_ " Yuri snarls under his breath, "Stop smiling, pig."

"Are you hungry, Yuri?"

"Why d'you care?"

"Because I'm hungry, I guess?"

"Ugh."

On second thought, it probably isn't that bad of an idea. Word must've spread and the police might be in a frenzy by now, sending out search teams and what not - that reminds him, _wait..._ with his good hand, he taps on his pockets... yes, he has dropped that phone, most probably on that pavement, and right now is in a flux of mixed emotions about it. He guesses it's good riddance, it's not like he _cares_ about that idiot policeman...

So while the idiot policeman sheds some manly tears over their last meet and the remains of a phone he might find if he tags along a search party, Yuri thinks he can stay with his namesake until the sun goes down; this other Yuri - or _Yoori_ , or _Yuuri_ , like he pronounces it - as much as Yuri doesn't want to admit, seems kind enough to let him. Maybe along the way, he can tell Yuuri how he failed to notice they were actually being gunned down during the banana peel incident, and scare him shitless. That'll be fun, won't it?

"Earth to Yuri," Yuuri waves in front of his eyes, "So, you want lunch?"

"Not if it's in public."

And then Yuuri concurs, his doe-eyes looking oddly at him through his half-cracked spectacles, latching up his bag from the front, and setting off into the direction they came from. Yuri follows suit, and is soon led to this oldish apartment complex a few blocks down; and then into this small two-roomed place clustered with way too many things, albeit stacked neatly over one another. There's a mini-fridge in the corner, an old LED TV opposite it, crockery and laundry dumps and rows and columns of books and different varieties of mess surrounding the living space.

"Welcome to my humble abode," says Yuuri, making a casual yet perfectly-aimed throw of the bag upon an empty stack that sends Yuri's head reeling for a split-second (" _That was ... awesome?_ "). As the older one leaves for the kitchen, the younger bounces upon the couch. Well, or whatever that is in the name of a couch, because it couldn't take the blunt trauma of the bounce; the padding under the sheet shifts and Yuri feels his butt sinking to the depths of hell.

Two minutes into terrible couch and chill and the guy returns with a pair of bowls to set on the smallish table at the corner which he pulls in line with the sofa with his free leg. "I had some eggs and ... I made something out of the leftovers from last night. I hope you won't mind?"

Let alone the fact his stomach is growling in protest and the dislocated shoulder sucking off all his energy, Yuri, minding home-made food, after having survived on takeouts, after spending a week in a police lock-up? Unlikely.

( _Also, how is this guy so fucking fast?_ )

"As long as it's edible," he grunts.

It sure does look edible. There's this golden shimmered meat cutlet thing over scrambled eggs and a healthy amount of rice underneath. Yuri stabs his fork into the cutlet and scrutinises it under his gaze. "What's this?"

"Katsudon!" The Yuuri guy is literally beaming with pride, and Yuri isn't sure why, "I can't make it too well though, you should taste my mother's. We have an inn at my hometown, if you ever visit Hasetsu, you'd know her recipe's still the pick of the town -"

"Ugh, stop talking," Yuri scowls, vigorously shaking his head, and pops in a mouthful. By now Yuri should've had found a place to hide his head and started plotting the big revenge plan on the mafia from the scratch, and not be sitting with one useless arm at some grad student's flat listening about hometown inns and pork cutlet recipes.

Having said that, the food is pretty tasty; the rice was refrigerated, yes, but he still has to make an effort to not hork it down at one go. "It's okay," he grumbles, even as Yuuri grins at him. What's with being all nice and kind to him though? Does this guy have other plans? Patch him up and feed him and sell him out to the mafia? No, that's being needlessly paranoid, he wouldn't have saved him from the bullet in the first place. Not like the guy knew what he was doing, but what if... _please, look at those fragile eyes, he was probably on his way to college and I missed him a ton worth of classes, he's crying internally, behind that dopey grin._

And now Yuri's staring at the ceiling, his back against the squishy mattress, waiting for the twilight as a tiny tangent of afternoon sunshine seeps through the hinge of the window and sprawls out its warmth against his face... he wonders why the windows have no railings... not how they worked back in St. Petersburg... a fire escape maybe... escape ... police frenzy... kind people... nice people... Katsudon... idiot policeman... his arm really hurts...

"Yuri," someone nudges him, "Yuri, _wake up_."

He springs into action like a whiplash, because, firstly, he wasn't supposed to doze off, and secondly, Yuuri is holding something in Yuri's face that looks like a phone, ringing in full volume, a name flashing up on the screen - _Dumb Cop_ -

A panic alarm blows off in his head and he screams out without thinking, "Where the _hell_ did you get that?!"

"Oh, sorry, I picked it up from the pavement and kept it in my bag... I thought I'll give it to you once we're done with the clinic, but it shifted off my mind..."

The ringing stops, then starts again. Yuri snatches it out of his hand, and with a deep sigh, readies himself for the call. There mustn't be any tracker on that phone or the police guy would've already been here. All of Yuri's plans are soiled to the ground now. He'll have to go back, he thinks, his heart sinking to a sporadic bitter low. _Goddammit._

* * *

Victor hasn't left his bed for the whole day.

The most he has done is feed Makkachin and walk across the room and slump on the sofa instead. His joints feel heavy; there are dried tears at the corners of his eyes, and every time he closes them, the dying man's pleading face flickers in his mind, the little girl's photograph bores a hole in his heart.

He knows he has made a promise, but he's terrified to go back there, terrified to watch more people die, and terrified to be unable to do anything about it.

As the current world champion in men's figure skating on a break, trying to make through a Medieval Arts degree in a prestigious university, who can secretly but fascinatingly change physical states of water through a mere click of his fingers, he definitely didn't sign up for this. He didn't know what he expected this to be, but... this, _this_ is all too painful. Hell, what made him think in the first place that he can venture out there and save people?

" _I'm like you._ "

That's what he said when he first met the masked vigilante, and watched him _save_. And Victor can't sign out now, doesn't want to either. He gave a dying man his word, and the very least he can do is keep it.

There's a soft knock on the door, and he shifts but doesn't budge, his face still pressed into the cushion. Makkachin yips and barks, scurrying around and then to the door. There's a slow creak of the door and he realises it has been unlocked since last evening. Not that he can bring himself to care.

"Victor?"

He looks up to find the softest pair of eyes behind the familiar set of spectacles (are they... cracked?) stare back at him from the distance; _oh, right_ , he remembers, today's supposed to be cleaning day, and Yuuri seems to have arrived well-prepared what with that medical mask on his face, standing awkwardly near the door, hesitant to approach Victor, because of course, anyone will notice something's _off_ about Victor's haggard state. And it stings, as Victor tends to hide his vulnerabilities from most prying eyes.

"Hey," Victor mumbles tiredly. It's not even afternoon anymore, the window pane is glazing against the night-time city lights.

"Are you okay? Are you sick? Victor?"

"I'm fine," it takes an incredible amount of effort to curl his lips into a smile, and no wonder Yuuri sees right through it.

"It's alright, I'll come by later -"

"Yuuri," he insists, sincerely this time, "please stay."

He can use some friendly comfort right now, more than anything else. He likes Yuuri. His eyes don't judge. They understand. And they can be endearingly funny, like right now, as they're shifting across the space in a fix about what to do, and finally look at the couch, where he squishes himself at the end, gathering whatever little space he can and trying not to bother Victor's spread-eagled figure or the slipper dangling by his toe.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really, Yuuri." He so wishes he could, but alas.

"Do you want me to order pizza?"

He smiles a small smile. "Okay."

"Pepperoni?"

"Pepperoni."

They spend a while not talking, and somehow the silence makes him feel better. It's a different, warm kind of silence, unlike the usual empty coldness of the room. Touch-starved as he is, all he wants to do is snuggle closer to Yuuri, bury his face in his cuddly jumper and lay bare his insecurities (that's what buddies do, right?). But it might scare Yuuri off; the last time he playfully grabbed his hand, Yuuri flinched. Right now Yuuri is hell-bent at maintaining that centimeter of distance between them; he isn't much of a touchy person after all. So, Victor doesn't so much as move; he'll rather be content with what he gets.

This time Yuuri breaks the ice. "Victor?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something? If you don't mind..."

"Sure, Yuuri."

"You'll go back to competitive skating, right?"

Victor has to constrain himself from letting out a humourless chuckle, because honestly, he doesn't know the answer to anything anymore. "I don't know, Yuuri, my coach certainly wants me to, but I don't know... do you follow figure skating?"

When he turns at Yuuri, Yuuri has transformed into a deep shade of red. "I'm uh, kind of a big fan. Of yours."

"Wow," he mutters, "I'm honoured." Well, certainly, Yuuri mustn't have expected somebody like him roaming in the campus on his first day like a lost bunny, or right now, digging his face into the couch. The media portrays him as the man who never steps a foot wrong, that graceful beauty who winks before he starts on a jog in his Nike shoes, that hot playboy who does bare-chested photoshoots with his gold skates and his jeans zipped open, not this tired clumsy mess who hasn't stepped out of the room for one whole day.

Maybe it has always been this way. Maybe he has feared failure for so long he has moulded himself into whatever role people have assigned him in. And now that he's on his own, and already failed at saving a life, he just _doesn't_ know what to do...

"You know, you're not like how the TV shows you," Yuuri somehow does it again.

No kidding.

He continues, "And I like you better this way."

 _Huh?_

"Everybody wants me to be something," Victor responds with a blunt sigh, "What do you want me to be to you, Yuuri? An idol? A brother-figure, a _friend_ , or your boyfriend maybe - "

" _Ehhhh?_ " it's practically impossible to bypass the red any deeper on Yuuri's face even as he makes the funny noise, "What are you talking about?!"

Victor smirks. "I'm teasing. You're adorable."

Victor sits up straight and Yuuri relaxes into the sofa like a deflated balloon. "Oh," he whispers, "um, it's not like my opinion matters or anything, but if you really ask me, I'll want you to be Victor, not _Victor Nikiforov_ , if that makes any sense." Then he does a double-take, "I mean - um, s-sorry, I ran my mouth too much, I don't even know you that well -"

"Hey, if you want me to be Victor," he wheels at Yuuri, his eyes glinting with slight mischief, "d'you want to know a little secret?"

Yuuri is startled, but nonetheless composes himself. "...Okay?"

"I'm really inept at dating. There you go."

"No way," he laughs, "That _can't_ be true!"

"See, now you're laughing," Victor whines in mock-sadness. "I had my first girlfriend when I was fifteen, and it was a nasty affair. By the time I had my second girlfriend I realised I don't really see girls that way. Then there was this really nice guy, but after six months... he wasn't so nice after all. I don't know what goes wrong every time, but I haven't been able to pull off a long-term relationship."

"But, aren't you and Christophe..."

"Me and Chris?" he snorts at the idea harder than he should have, much to Yuuri's confusion, "He's a sex bomb. Frankly, you'd stay away as long as you don't want public bathroom scandals every six months. Have you seen his manager, the one who hangs around with him and his coach?"

"Uh, maybe..."

"That's his boyfriend. They've been close-knit for a long time."

"So, um," Yuuri rubs his knuckles together, pausing before every word, "So, are you... single?"

His insides flip, and it's almost like the nervousness is contagious, "More or less."

"Uh, okay."

Is that it? Why did he ask? People don't ask unless they're interested. Or perhaps he's just curious. Victor has never received such a glorious amount of mixed signals from a person before. Maybe it doesn't even matter in the long run, not minding what Yuuri said; will he be able to accept Victor once he knows the truth about him? While he wants Victor to be himself, can he handle it if Victor pulls off his gloves and unleashes the vicious icy powers that never comply with him, or anyone, for that matter? He probably won't want to put Yuuri through such tribulation anytime in near future either.

 _You can't choose who you fall in love with_. He shrugs. So what, he just might, as long as he has a choice. He glances sideways. Yuuri is fiddling with his phone, texting maybe. It's just a case of unreciprocated attraction, and Victor must stop before it turns into a severe case of unrequited love.

He knows no matter how kind Yuuri is, he'll never understand the true, the hidden _him_. He won't judge, but he won't understand. It's not humanly possible.

The vigilante just _might_ , who knows.

"I actually like this one person," Victor senses his collar heat up, not sure why he brought this in, "but..."

" _Oh_ ," it's a sharp, hollow sound of breath and Yuuri seems to be running out of polite responses, so Victor drops it for good. The conversation has become too much about him already.

"What happened to your glasses?"

"This?" Yuuri tucks them off and examines the pair for a minute, "I fell on the pavement this morning."

"What? Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

Yuuri grins, like it's some usual occurrence, "No, not really. I'm good."

"By the way, Yuuri," he says, his voice low and constricted, "thank you for coming. I was really down today. And I... I was really afraid."

He wonders what Yuuri will make of it as he trails off his blubbering without any explanation, his face in his palms – and only looks up when he senses a hand squeezing his shoulder. "I guess," Yuuri's sigh has a calming effect, "I guess the only thing you can do is go out there and face it, Victor. Whatever it is. Sorry, that - that sounds a little rude, doesn't it..."

"Give yourself a little more credit, Yuuri," he gives off a sad chuckle, "You're right. I think I've been trying to run away."

When their eyes meet, Victor feels this weird emotion he just told his brains to not create. He leaps off the couch, his arms on his hips, "So, shall we clean?"

* * *

Hi guys, please review! They keep me going!


	6. Chapter 6

Vi

* * *

Banana peels on wood only have a coefficient of friction (CoF) of 0.07.

When initiating a fall, the leading foot hits the ground with forward momentum at a strike angle of 15 degrees. Chances of falling are high, but chances of projectile falling are pretty low, let alone making a yard long leap. Chances are even lowered when there's strong static friction between the shoe and the skin of the peel and the coarse concrete.

Long story short, it doesn't work like _SpongeBob SquarePants,_ and Yuuri should thank his stars it was just a fifteen-year-old boy he had to lie to.

He's always thought he'll be better at handling day-time situations. He had worn his suit under his normal clothes as a precautionary measure, but in that split-second moment of decision, time didn't exaggerate itself into slow-mo, he couldn't take a single button off his cardigan let alone pull out his mask from his bag – and the trash bin being near him was perhaps just a stroke of luck – he has no idea what he'd have done if he weren't able to disarm the gunman at the first shot.

Still, the biggest stroke of luck he gathered from the anecdote was the fact he _met_ the boy, because the person who came to take him – _Dumb Cop_ , according to Yuri's phone ID – got Yuuri all curious, who was splitting hairs piecing two and two together.

 _Dumb Cop_ turned out to be the one on the motorbike that night ready to put a bullet in Yuuri's helmet mask had the mangled car not been his priority numero uno, arriving at the flat a good fifteen minutes later, deep set eyes casting a dark, suspicious glare at Yuuri before they changed to courteous and he introduced himself as the Yuri boy's boyfriend.

And Yuri didn't look too happy about it; he had a split-second of eye contact with the cop, and glanced aside, guilty and perhaps a little intimidated. Till then Yuuri assumed it was a case of a paranoid, overly attached boyfriend, but the moment the cop turned to him and enquired if he had an ID to prove that he were a student like he claimed he was, Yuuri could sense there was something... very, very odd.

So Yuuri tailed them to the parking lot. The evening had cast a disarray of shadows, assisting him at his usual, soundless footwork (not his best out of costume, but _whatever_ , it works). Not that he needed it; the two unaware kids' loud argument was ricocheting off all the walls.

Yuri started it. "That was stupid, stupid. What were you thinking?! That pig saw through us, I could tell by his face, he saw –"

 _Punch._ The smack was hard but didn't look like it intended any actual harm, so Yuuri restrained himself in the shadows. Meanwhile, the boy stumbled against a car at the impact, before whipping up to his feet like a wrestler for round two, nursing his cheek, " _What was that for?!_ "

The cop was rigid at his position, his shoulders stiff, his fists and teeth clenched. _Jesus, Yuri, stop screaming. If I were you I'd be intimidated._ Though Yuuri still doesn't understand. _What was up_?

"How can you be so irresponsible," the cop finally spoke, "After everything, how can you be so careless?"

"I was..." One look at the cop and all of Yuri's rebelliousness seemed to deflate from his body like air out of a punctured balloon. "Okay, _prosti, prosti, da."_

"What about that cast on your arm?"

"It's a long story."

"I'm not running out of time."

Yuuri could bet he saw the boy (the Russian boy? The accent gave it away before, but Yuuri had his doubts) resist the urge to roll his eyes. "The mafia came at me," he mumbled, his gaze alternating between the cop and the floor, wanting to see his expression without getting caught in the act, "They shot at me... and something really weird happened. I -"

( - _wait, no, fuck_ – Yuuri feels his stomach flip – _what if the cop figures it out, he's got first-hand experience after all_ – suddenly the secret of Yuuri's identity depended upon Yuri's version of the events - )

" - I got lucky. Some freaky shit happened, I bumped into that student guy... I guess the mafia grew a heart or something and didn't want to kill a civilian, or didn't want to make a scene in broad daylight, so they left... And the rest is, you know. He took me to a doctor and gave me food. I'm floozy from meds but that's what I remember."

( _Phew._ Yuuri breathed easy. _He left out the trash lid, the peel, the fallen gun. Good Yuri, nice Yuri._ )

"Anything else you want to tell me?" asked the cop, running his hands through his hair as if he just breezed through a great disaster.

"The boyfriend idea was _stupid_."

Yuuri groaned internally, because _wow, great diversion, Yuri_ , now they're going to discuss that painfully obvious tactic and submerge themselves in romantic tension. And it had already begun, as their eyes locked until one of them broke into a grin, while Yuuri sank against a wall, hands in his pockets, sticking out in this private situation like a sore thumb. Some weird trajectory in his brain went ahead with its own fantasized _what if_ s with Victor – _Victor..._ wait, no, _not now_ , not when he's on vigilante duty.

"Nobody will buy it if I say we're brothers," the cop said seriously, "I wanted to appear as a trustworthy person. It didn't mean anything, in case you're getting ideas."

"Ideas? Pfft," Yuri scoffed, dusting himself with his good hand, "I won't want a forty year old dude to be my boyfriend."

"I'm nineteen."

"You're _nineteen_?!"

"Forty's an exaggeration, don't you think?"

"You sound like a forty-year-old." The boy chuckles even as the cop glares, "I'm just messing with ya. How did you get to be a cop at nineteen?"

"It's a long story."

"We aren't running outta time, are we?"

The cop unlocks his motorbike, his lip curling into a small smile. "You cheeky little shit."

"That reminds me, how deep in shit am I? That Babicheva woman is gonna cut me in half. I'm not going back there."

"Yes, you are," the cop replied, putting on a helmet and tossing another at Yuri, "You're gonna go back to Agápe and everyone's gonna behave like today didn't happen. I'll handle everything else on my part. Now climb up, I have other stuff to do."

* * *

agape

 _Results in English_

 **Agape**

 **/əˈɡeɪp/**

(of a person's mouth) wide open in surprise or wonder.

"Downes listened, mouth agape with incredulity"

 **Agape**

( **agápē)**

Greco-Christian term referring to "love: the highest form of love, charity", and "the love of God for man and of man for God."

 **Agape**

Coffeehouse

15 minutes from Detroit State Council Library

4.2 view ratings and reviews

Opening and closing times: 10:00 a.m to 9:30 p.m

 **Place delivery • Call • Directions**

It's like they say: third time's a charm. It senses like, in some third-degree manner, everything's related to the hospital murders, but what is, and how? Why was the cop so worried about Yuri, and why was a teenager targeted by the mafia? Maybe Yuuri is desperately trying to make a connection. Before further damage, the whole mafia circle needs to be busted, regardless.

He changes tabs on his laptop, sitting on the ledge of the ten-storeyed window of this under-construction building complex in the area, radio by his side that he adjusts twice in a while to catch signals properly, sighing for the baziliionth time at the three academic papers he'd been doing simultaneously, with no progress whatsoever.

(" _What even happens if a cell is placed under an Intrinsic Field Subtractor?_ _Apart from the fact that I haven't done my labwork yet and Jstor is clueless and I'm about to receive a D-?")_

 _Deadlines_ are the only world-dominating maniacally-laughing supervillains there are. They're just going to frustrate him to a point he goes on self-destruct mode and his helmet explodes. And _damn_ this helmet, he can't even see the keyboard in the darkness; he feels like he's typing in his sleep. Stupid polymer eggshell.

He thinks he'll be heartbroken, but he feels nothing. More like, he feels numb. Victor said he has his eyes set on someone else. Makes sense. In any case, Yuuri thought Victor was involved with Christophe Giacometti. Nothing really changes. Good thing that Yuuri didn't make too much out of Victor being so kind and genuine to him. Victor must've been in a frantic need for friends. Good thing Yuuri didn't get his hopes up. You can't be disappointed if you expected nothing in the first place.

Bad thing, the very bad thing, the worst thing there is... is the fact he's lying to himself, it _hurts_ , it hurts like a slow prick of a needle, it hurts to think, and yet he can't help it, he wants to see Victor again, he wants to see Victor every day, he loves spending time with him – _as a friend_ – and more so, because he turned out to be nothing like Yuuri thought Victor'd be – has he said this before? Because he keeps on reiterating it in his head...

Victor's beautiful, fascinating, even with his vulnerabilities. _Who must be this wonder-man then,_ thinks Yuuri, _who managed to charm someone like Victor_ –

"Oi!"

He peers down to find a hooded guy waving up at him. The silver streak of ice travelling along the pipeline up to the ledge gives him away, or he's just pulled that trick to hog Yuuri's attention. In any case, Yuuri steps down, radio in one hand and the laptop squeezed back into his bag and left on the window, swings the height by the pipeline (" _Jeez, Ice Guy, you made it slippery._ "), and lunges to the ground.

"Hey, Elsa," he huffs good-naturedly, "Long time no see! Nice jawline, by the way."

Yuuri watches the guy's hand unconsciously touch his own mouth – the only exposed part of his face. The guy has a better getup now, way more casual than his (Yuuri guesses the spandex discourse is unnecessary unless one has to fling himself from point A to point B); he only has a hood up and a mask that goes till half his face – and it's clever, because it's easier to merge into civilians this way, and yet it's effective, _pretty_ effective.

Although, everything about this man causes a slight sparking in Yuuri's brain, throws a reminder about something... _someone_...

"Tom Cruise," Yuuri blurts out his sudden epiphany, scratching his neck.

"What?" Ice man sounds confused.

"Nothing," he shakes his head, "What's up?"

"I needed some help," he says. He sounds extremely down-for-business. Hmm, whatever happened to the flirtatious _Ice Daddy_?

"Okay," Yuuri concedes, "What help do you need?"

The guy shuffles the right pocket of his jacket and pulls out what looks like a passport-sized picture of a child. "This girl," he explains, "she got taken near Michigan Avenue last night. I need to find her. Will you help?"

"Alright. D'you want me to keep this picture or can you scan me a copy?"

"Keep it. I remember the face."

"Okay," he takes it, keeps it in that small pouch-like pocket around his waist he'd designed to carry any kind of mini-necessity, "I'll be on it."

"Is that a fanny pack?"

"... No," Yuuri's neck heats up in embarrassment, "It's a pocket. I was going to redesign it."

"The embodiment of Eros carries a fanny pack," he sniggers.

"Watch it," Yuuri tries to be intimidating, to no avail.

"Never mind, it looks good on your ass."

"It's not... a fanny pack." Because no one after the 90s has ever owned one. Yuuri feels legitimately offended now; he might be out of tune with the up-and-coming stuff, but this is taking it too far. He can see a new name suggestion flash before his eyes – _Fanny-pack Man_ – and he can say with some certainty that this one belongs to his nightmares.

"Curious how I complimented your ass and that's the only thing that registered in your mind."

"Well," flustered enough, Yuuri wants to back up with a retort, but the radio chooses this moment to beep – there are reports of a swarm of police cars chasing down to the Northwest residential area – and he buckles for the action instead, "I gotta go."

"Okay. I won't hold you back."

"Hey, Ice Dude, any idea what happens when a human cell is placed under an Intrinsic Field Subtractor?"

"...Huh?"

"Thought so," Yuuri races down to the lamp post to pile up the momentum and projectile himself towards the highway, "Toodles!"

* * *

"Babicheva, it's an emergency."

"It's 3 fucking a.m in the morning, Tabby."

Mila shifts in her bed, ripping the sheet aside, eyes straining themselves to open as the noise from the other side of the line sounds like the slow grating of a truck. _Ugh_ , she rises, her free hand flapping about at the side drawer, blindly searching for the switch of the lamp. _Damn_ that Plisetsky kid, because of that rebellious stint she had to run about the city the whole day, by the end of which she could hardly hold her head up anymore, exhausted. And now she can't even afford a good night's sleep.

"Babicheva, a bomb exploded at Officer JJ's house. You need to come to the spot, right now."

" _What_?" she does a double-take, "What d'you mean – what kind of bomb – what _happened_?"

"I don't know," the man on the line lets out a shaky breath against the fading noise of the sirens, "I have no details. I'm on my way to the spot."

"I'll be there in a minute."

It takes her around thirty, what with the distance and her keys getting jammed as she tried to start the car. She sprints to the spot – it has already been bound with tape – a huddle of neighbours at one corner lined up for casual questioning, few flashes of camera, a fire truck beside a hoard of police cars. And a wrecked, blackened, barely-there remains of a house at the centre of it all. She inhales the burnt stink of the air, her heart giving a nasty throb.

"Sergeant!"

She turns. It's the one who called her, police badge shining with the name – Mark Tabitha – currently in uniform, unlike her whose mind went on auto-drive as soon as she heard the news, and she rushed out in her pyjamas and slippers, picking only the ID and gun along the way. Not that she cares at the moment.

"Tabby, how many casualties? Where is JJ?"

"As far I know, only one. It's JJ's fiancée -"

 _Oh dear god._ Mila runs her hand through her knotty bedhead even as Tabitha struggles to pry his eyes away from his senior officer's haggard state. Out of all people, _Isabella_ _Yang_ – why, why the fuck; Mila senses her empty stomach rumble, all of a sudden their short, friendly conversations float up. Such a sweetheart Isabella is – _was_? _God, no._ With a shaky hand, she pulls out her phone, dials JJ's number – _in all probability, he won't be available right now_ – and he isn't. _Dammit._

"What caused it? How did it happen?" she tries to keep her voice as stable as she possibly can.

"It was a time-bomb hidden in a drawer. We don't know how it got in there. We know that something happened and JJ got a hint and both of them tried to crash out of the window to get away, but we guess it blasted in the middle of it. We have reports that Officer JJ is unhurt, but his fiancée – she lost her left leg in the explosion. She lost a lot of blood and we don't know if she's out of danger yet."

"Okay," commands Mila, "send a team to the hospital and provide whatever assistance JJ needs. I'll need some gloves and a torch. I'll see if I can do some digging. Off you go!"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

The porch is non-existent. She steps through the unsteady rubble of concrete; the corner of her eye catches a large splattering of blood on the grass, and the smell of burnt flesh makes it difficult to hold back the bile in her throat. The porch leads to the living room – completely destroyed – followed by the bedroom – at least its walls are still standing. The bed sheets are blackened and soggy – must've been the doings of the fire hose – the closet has flopped onto the floor, jagged edges of broken mirror around it.

The room feels like an eerie, sickening dystopia. She picks up a piece of the mirror, and quietly gazes at its reflection. "You are contaminating the site of crime, vigilante."

She watches a shadow shift behind her. "I didn't touch anything," he confides.

"You know, you have an arrest warrant on you. I can handcuff you right now."

"But you won't," he replies, in that robotic monotone that sometimes makes her feel he isn't human enough, "So, let's keep peace and move on."

"Did you witness the blast?"

"I didn't. I just arrived."

"Should I trust you?"

"Not trusting me will be the easiest way out, officer."

"You're right," she sighs, scrutinising the sheets now, hands on her hip, "You really shouldn't be here, vigilante. If you're caught in one of the pictures, you're gonna be in deep, deep trouble."

"I'll heed to your advice," he walks out of the dark corner, yellow lights of the fire truck glimmering against his black spandex-clad figure, "but before that, follow me."

She trails his wavering presence (it's hard to trace the way he appears and disappears through the lights and the shadows) as he leads her to the exact spot of explosion, not much more than a usual dump of rubble and ash and burnt flakes. They're in a clear view of the people outside now, and she's growing concerned about him ( _heck_ , if JJ finds out about this, he's going to shoot the vigilante dead on first impulse).

"Can you see that thing?" he lets out a raspy whisper, pointing at the dump. She screws her eyes, unsure what he's talking about, but the one thing that catches her attention is that suspiciously unharmed orange object half-buried in the dust.

"It looks like a..."

"Something like a black box, yes."

Mila reaches out to pull it up; ("Careful!" the vigilante hisses behind her) indeed, a household object won't be able to withstand the intensity of a serious blast like that, much less come out of it this shiny and whole. She flips it over – there's a single button; it's too small to be a real flight recorder, more like a custom-made Walkman. Without thinking, she presses it.

A grainy sound of a chorus of a crowd singing a countdown begins, " _Seven... six... five... four -"_

"Get back!" the vigilante pushes it out of her hands, then pulls her back, his arms up wide shielding her from what can _just_ be another bomb she has accidentally set off.

"- _three... two... one... Happy New Year, 1937! Hurray!"_

They breathe easy, and the vigilante shifts off her. She picks up the recorder, plunks it into a plastic packet and seals it as evidence, a vein of annoyance bobbing at her temple, "What is this, is this someone's idea of a sick joke? I bet you -"

By the time she turns, he is gone.

* * *

Yuri Plisetsky is anxious today.

He took a bus to Agápe this morning, from the dumpster of a room guarded by police that he's forced to call his home (Otabek told him he's going to make better arrangements for his stay, and Yuri has mixed emotions about it; on one hand, Yuri's happy, on the other, he realises he has just stuck another foot in Otabek's chain of favours). From all the scrutiny he gets before he even starts his day, it won't be long before he'll be asked to work bound in handcuffs.

That isn't the point though. Today, the cafe doesn't have any plain-clothed policemen looking over him, not even the Babicheva woman. Truth be told, he was scared about their encounter in the morning, but it appears like, finally, the Gods have slumped on his side. Also, Otabek told him he'll come visit in the morning, but apparently he forgot – not just that, he hasn't responded to any of Yuri's texts either, it's almost like he has been talking to a wall.

Half the morning passes and no reply, so he gives in. Yuri grumbles over the counter, somehow able to fasten the staff apron with his good right arm. What was he even expecting. A cop shall always remain a cop, and all this weird connection crap is just one big manipulating scheme.

Out of frustration, he tries to sneak in a cup of coffee for himself, but turns out he didn't pay attention when he was being taught, and now whatever squeaked out of the coffee machine doesn't taste edible enough. _Gah._ Everything sucks.

Until he furrows his eyebrows together and spots a familiar head of black messy hair, sitting right about the corner with a laptop.

"Katsudon?" he calls out, walking to his table. He expects a turn and a wave; weirdly enough, his namesake flinches but doesn't respond otherwise.

"Oi," Yuri reaches out to poke him on the shoulder. He plops ahead to face him, glaring at his new glasses and perpetually confused doe eyes for the insulting lack of recognition, when Yuuri Katsu-something Katsudon gives that _I-remember-you_ blink, and whispers, "Yuri, sit."

It isn't so much as an offer or a request as much as it is a polite command (screw this guy for being so polite; if he's ever kidnapped he'll probably end up saying " _Kidnapper-san, kidnapper-san, please let me go,"_ or in whichever way these over-polite Japanese people use their suffixes _)._ Pissed, Yuri braces up with a retort, "If you don't know, I work at this stupid-ass place - "

"Just do as I say."

"What, pig," Yuri thumps himself onto the opposite chair, a little irritated about the fact that his feet still struggle to touch the floor.

"That man and the woman on those two tables are sitting back against back but I noticed they're talking to each other. Odd, don't you think?"

Yuri is halfway through wheeling his chair around when Katsudon shushes him, "Don't look!"

"... If I don't look, how am I supposed to see?"

"... I mean, uh, don't look like that. If you're being so obvious, they're gonna get alarmed."

Yuri stares daggers at him, before throwing a glance behind his back; there _are_ two people, back against back on two chairs, either mumbling to themselves like schizophrenics or Katsudon is actually right. Yuri hasn't seen them before, but he realises one will do such if only they don't want to be seen together in public. He'd have alerted Babicheva, but given some kind of skewed order of circumstances, no police is currently present.

"Yuri," Katsudon mutters lowly, "why were there transmitters in the centre vases?"

"How did you know, what the _fuck_?"

"I saw the man pull it out. The woman didn't, however. The man didn't tell her, I guess. I checked my table and there was one. Yuri, I'm very confused. If you don't mind, can you tell me what's going on?"

"It's none of your damn business," he snaps. Then reconsiders. _What's the point, he's figured out most of it already. And that's Detroit City's finest detectives for you, ladies and gentlemen. Plan punctured by a fucking grad student_. "Okay, look," he starts again, "you're not supposed to be meddling with shit like this. If I were you, I'd back out."

"I understand," he smiles for some reason, "but I still want to know."

"Alright, as you wish, dumbass," then Yuri takes his voice to such low that the pig has to bow in to catch his words, "This place is a mafia hotspot. And it's swarming with police most of the time. A shootout can break out any moment and you're gonna get your ass landed in deep. You gettit, now? Stay away."

"They're communicating with notes now," Katsudon glances over his shoulder, almost as if his words are unheeded.

"Urgh," he grunts, jumping to his feet, and tugs at Katsudon's sleeve, "Come with me." The guy is a little surprised, but shuts his laptop and tucks it under his arm, and follows Yuri's beeline to the kitchen as Yuri shuts the door behind them. There's a small one-way glass barrier thing on the top half of the door, and Yuri knows he's going to be mocked any second now over his inability to look through it without climbing on some damn stool.

"Er, Yuri, are you sure I should be in here?" But Katsudon seems to have other priorities.

"As long as no one sees you," he grumbles.

"You said this place is full of cops. Why can't you just tell one and bust them?"

"Why are you so annoying, panini-head?" he barks, "There's no cop here. Not right now. They're cops, of course they'll fucking disappear when you need them. You don't understand how these things work, just be happy I'm allowing you to be involved."

"Maybe they're busy over the bomb blast at the cop's place last night."

"What blast? What cop?"

"Er, some explosion at a cop's place. It was all over the news since the morning."

Cop? Which cop? Is this why Otabek hasn't been answering? _No, no, Otabek's just preoccupied and rude, he's not..._ suddenly Yuri catches a glimpse of Katsudon pitifully looking at his widened eyes as he dares to put a hand on Yuri's shoulder. "Don't worry, I don't remember who it was but it wasn't your boyfriend."

Boyfriend? Oh, that silly act last day. Yuri shrugs and swats away his hand. "How did you know he's a cop, you fucking know-it-all?"

"You saved his number as Dumb Cop on your cell."

"Fine, if you know that far, you should know he's _not_ my boyfriend. Don't mention him again," he snarls, exasperated, heat gushing around his neck, "I fucking can't watch those two dumb morons anymore either -"

" - I took their pictures -"

"You take pictures, dumbass, I'm gonna go beat them up."

"Yuri, _no_ -"

"Yuri, yes," he walks out of the kitchen, swinging the door shut on Katsudon's face.

It's just a figure of speech; of course he has a plan up his sleeve. He's going to resort to scare tactics and _fake-it-till-you-make-it_ , so he approaches the lady and asks with a saccharine smile if he can take her cup back. The man shuffles away, pretending to be glossing over his phone, and the woman – in the middle of reading a scribble on the napkin – panics, tears the napkin in quarters and lets them sog into her half-done tea.

"Ta-fucking-daa," Yuri announces proudly, as he pushes the kitchen door open with his cast.

"They're leaving," Katsudon's still peeking through the glass, "What did you say to them?"

"I told them the café holds the right to deny service to hard-ass criminals," Yuri sniggers, "It's a _joke._ I said nothing. That woman just panicked and scuttled off for good. And look, you're a science guy, right? Bet you can make out the messages from the napkin-tea mush. Now's your turn to shine."

 _Wow, this must really be testing Katsudon's politeness_ , and Yuri can't be any happier. Thankfully, the leftover tea has gone cold, so Katsudon grabs a pair of tweezers and carefully spreads them on the sheet to soak them dry (he's got lab-trained skill set, which is cool, but God forbid if Yuri spits that out).

"I don't understand," he mumbles.

"It's in Russian," Yuri tells him, "Looks like an address to me."

"So, what's it about?"

He wishes he can answer, but all sound is suddenly overwhelmed by the flinging of the backdoor, and a sharp mix of Spanish curses from the fuming Mexican woman with a spatula, who manages to spot the odd one out of her café staff scarily fast, her angry gaze alternating between the tweezers in Katsudon's hands and the dark mess of tea-paper mush they have made on that spotless sheet.

 _Shit_. He ought to get Katsudon out of the kitchen before she comes in. There's no point in trying now. Yuri backs two steps off. Katsudon is _so_ dead.

* * *

"So you're a part-time barista now? You don't have time for the Biomechanics internship but serving Cappuccino 500 times a day is just one cruel necessity, isn't it?"

Yuuri stutters at Phichit's frightening form, "Look, it was out of my control." Poorly worded as it is, he tries to reason as Phichit's bushy eyebrows slowly rise and disappear into his bangs. "Seriously, I stained her favourite sheet with tea, made her tweezers filthy and trespassed into her kitchen... that's what she said. She added that she'll hand me over to the cops if I don't explain... and I fumbled."

"So, big deal, you saved your head in that situation, and now it's over. You don't need to go back there!"

"Uh..."

"Oh, great," Phichit facepalms dramatically, "Poor old lady. Poor old lady shall die if you don't keep your word. Good God, Yuuri, this might sound insensitive but stop being so kind to everyone! Firstly, no one - and I repeat - no one sneaks into a kitchen to see how they roll a pizza base. Secondly, you gotta punch your way through sometimes! How did you even _survive_ this far?"

"You got me," he mumbles under his breath, once again, terribly guilty about keeping his friend in the dark. It's for Phichit's own good, he reminds himself. Honestly, there's nothing that Yuuri wants as badly as a confidant; recently he feels like he might burst. But Phichit needs to stay as far as he can from the series of oddities which has reached a point that Yuuri anyhow _needs_ to develop close affection with the police. He needs to go back to that café and hoard as much information as he can. A hospital massacre... a senior cop's house being bombed... it's no joke. Yuuri can sense this undercurrent of something sinister... and very, very _random_.

"Chin up," says Phichit, grabbing Yuuri by the shoulder and trying to fit both their heads in the screen frame, "Let's have a pre-seminar selfie!"

Also, this absolutely terrifying task that Yuuri has been putting off since ages finds its moment to strike, "Did you talk to Celestino?"

"Nope, you're on your own, my dude. He's not a mountain troll, Yuuri, although he's got the looks," Phichit laughs at his glum, dehydrated face, "Just tell him you're not interested and be done with it."

Somewhy an essay sized begging at Phichit to do it for him still seems easier than a two-worded conversation with Celestino. _God_ , Yuuri wants to pull out strands of his own hair, _why is my brain wired like this._ Meanwhile, his phone beeps. He checks it; the homescreen flashes with a small, vague text from Victor: **_Help_**.

"I'll be right back," he breaks into a run before his mind even decides what to do, his thumb dialing Victor's number. It rings for a while. Maybe a minute, no more than forty seconds to be precise. No answer.

His insides twist into a knot, even as he pushes past an oncoming crowd, struggling hard with the constrained jog until he can into an empty place to change up and run at his natural pace – _darn it_ , is keeping his identity even worth anything against Victor's life? Maybe he should just start running. He dials again, he's leaping through the emptier patches of the campus, definitely catching some attention – _pick up the call, Victor_ – he's at the gate now, he needs a starting point – _Victor isn't in a position to pick up_ – huffing behind the parking lot, Yuuri sends him a text instead: ** _Where are you?_**

"Please reply," Yuuri senses the jarring beating of his heart along his clenched jaw, barely able to keep his tears at bay. Or the worst assumptions.

From: Victor N

14:06

 ** _Library. I took physics as optional and I'm clueless now. If you're free, can you help ;_;_**

Yuuri literally sinks against the mossy wall, his seminar formals be damned. His shoulders slumped, his back hunched, he stares at his watch. Still quite a bit of time till the seminar, so he detours to the library, cursing this fat stinking piece of – _something –_ inside him that magnetizes him towards this silver-haired man.

"I'm leaving this city before it gives me a heart attack."

* * *

Victor doesn't know what he was thinking when he chose physics as an optional. Was it a black and white montage of Einstein speedwriting on a blackboard or rainbow-filled reels of cuddly cute nerds with specs, he doesn't know. It's just like how he chose to learn French back when he was 15, assuming it'd be as easy as fantasizing about Stephane Lambiel. He managed to pull through that, but this... this is beyond comprehension.

He flips his notebook shut, and sags lazily over it. Additionally, he's getting nowhere at finding the little girl. The Eros vigilante hasn't contacted him in any manner, so he isn't putting any hopes on it. Neither could he find a single news article about the incident. He wonders how deep he has to dig. Searching up on the net isn't enough, he'll have to look for local newspapers, maybe police reports...

"Yuuri!" he mouths silently as soon as he catches a glimpse of his cute spectacled friend in a... suit? What's the occasion?

Standing by the door, Yuuri finally spots him and gestures to come outside. "Hey," Victor struts out in an instant, swiping his table clean and dumping all his stuff into his bag in a jiffy, "Why're you all dressed up?"

"I have a presentation today," he says, a light blush popping around his ears, "It's something the physics guys started last year. They joke-call it an All Nerds Association, but the profs are particular about it since there's always fresh talent. I..." he trails off to nowhere, "So, um, what happened with you?"

"Oh, right," he fishes out his notebook again as they find a space to sit at the stairs to the foyer, "Take a look at this disaster."

Yuuri runs his eyes through the page, his grouchy expression setting deeper and deeper with every problem, "Whaa – what's with these questions in optionals? They can't just expect students to learn integrals in a day – _wait_ , oh no, your batch got Professor Griffin, right?"

Victor blinks. "Which one?"

"Tall, bald, moustache that looks like a boat if you stare too hard at it."

"I thought it looked like a boat!" he exclaims, then chuckles aloud. Yuuri joins in, but then as he flicks at the blank pages at the back, his smile fades. Victor nudges him, "You okay? You look dehydrated."

"I'm fine, I'm just... nervous about the presentation."

"Hmm, big public speech?"

"Yeah."

"Don't worry, Yuuri, you'll do great."

"I've ruined my suit already," he mumbles like he's done with life, and Victor notices the stains of moss on his trousers, "I look dehydrated, everyone's mentioned it once. I'm gonna read out a paper I've written in a trance – I don't think I've even proofread it! I'll get a panic attack on the podium and choke on my words and die. Sorry, I must be boring you…"

"Yuuri, Yuuri _shh_ , calm down," he whispers as softly as he can, "You look great." _Like anyone cares about a moss stain. Like I'm not chanting Victor-it's-just-a-phase-you'll-get-over-it to myself. Like I can't see a girl behind us is stealing glances at you – specifically you, you oblivious nutcase._ "Maybe if the tie - "

It hits him a second later _. No, no. Bad choice of words, Victor._

The baby blue tie has been bothering him for a while, so it just slips out, and now the damage is done. Victor might have given him the final push towards strutting-to-and-fro-desperately-flinging-limbs-around kind of panic.

"I guess everything I own is crap," Yuuri mutters to himself glumly, "Some dingus last night made fun of me over an accessory -"

Someone as nice as Yuuri calling a person _dingus_ must mean the experience has been pretty bad. "Yuuri, never mind these assholes - "

" - Is it true?" Yuuri's too busy in his own head to listen to anything else, "I know I'm not up to date most of the time, but do I look like an idiot? Do I look like I time-travelled from the 90s? It doesn't matter. Why I'm even bothered with this? I'm rambling... I'm gonna screw everything up..."

Yuuri texts a lot when he's in mood, but he hardly talks as much. Victor guesses these momentary states of panic are exceptions. In any case, Victor needs to do something or Yuuri's anxiety shall take over and he might actually start messing things up. Like right now, as he has picked up a bottle but cannot go through opening its lid.

"Yuuri, do you care about my opinion?"

"Eh, w-what kind of question is that?" he looks befuddled, finally able to separate the lid from the bottle, "Of course I do."

"And you believe me, right?"

"Y-yeah."

He takes Yuuri's hand – it's a shame Victor has to wear gloves all the time – and gives it a slight squeeze. "Then I think you are beautiful."

* * *

Sorry it took so much time, I had exams! Please review!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter - 7

* * *

" _I can whip you to my knees and make you beg for your death while you moan my name_ ," he sneers, the pitch distorter morphing his breath into a buzz that sure would've tickled Victor's cheek had it not been blocked by the mask. His leathered finger traces the goosebumps on Victor's skin, almost as if leaving a scorching trail behind, " _A slight twist in the chokehold and I can break this dainty, fragile neck_."

Pinned against a wet, greasy wall, heart hammering in his chest and rage seething through his nerves, Victor manages to whisper, " _I hate you._ "

Let's take a few steps back, shall we.

It starts out as a deceptively usual night. Victor has been circling round the narrow thoroughfare where the man died, hunting for clues, knowing well that the lies must've been washed away by the rain. He finally found a small article - stuffed at the corner of the third page in a parchment-like local newsletter – which he clipped out and slipped into his pocket. (The article – quoted straight from the police – didn't even mention a girl, and concluded the man died from a tragic unprovoked crash against a pole.) Humbled by his own helplessness, he walks into a quieter, windier area by the sea port. Apparently, the city has no time for such minute affairs.

It's breezy and drizzling. The sky is partly cloudy; the half-moon is leering out from behind, throwing a blue shade at the settled dust – _thump_ –

Victor coughs even as his nostrils sense like they're on fire – he's just inhaled water, and not just any water, but dirty drain water - as a kick lands from nowhere in the crease of his back and his face slams into a puddle by the pavement. "What even," Victor looks up, his face icky with the dirt that the mask has soaked into itself, and he has no choice but to keep it on, "What the _fuck_?"

It's _him_ , it's the Eros vigilante, arms casually on his hips, an imaginable sly grin behind that helmet of his, guesses Victor. It's the first time he has greeted Victor like this, though. Victor thought they're... friends? Allies?

"Like I predicted, no sense of danger," the vigilante speaks, almost as if he's making a mental note to himself.

His head still spinning at the impact of the last smack, Victor positions himself to get to his feet. Before he can accomplish anything close to that, another kick arrives that he fails to notice (even more so because it's nearly impossible to locate the man's movements in the dark), and Victor's sent flying backwards thwacking to a stop against a milestone.

"I can tell you're a rich guy," the vigilante continues to scorn him, "Bet you're thinking how to get that mud stain off your pants. Shall I get your butler for you?"

"What's your problem?" Rubbing his back, Victor can no longer ignore the vein of annoyance bobbing at his temple.

The vigilante perhaps doesn't even register his words. "What happened to your ice flukes?" – _another kick_ , Victor manages to scramble out of the way – "Shoot, did'ya forget to put the tray into the freezer?" – a _punch_ from close proximity that plows into the side of Victor's head and sends a shockwave throughout his body.

Then it occurs – a sharp, pinching pain around his fingertips and the biggest streak of silver he's ever created shoots out with a lightning-like cackle – the moment it hits the ground, it spreads like wildfire, branching ahead into tall, pointy, sword-like icicles. To his horror (surprise? awe?), the vigilante's sharper instincts happen to dodge it all.

"The ice show, ladies and gentlemen," the vigilante breaks off an icicle near his feet and tosses into the air like he's planning to play catch with it.

Victor is so stunned that he can't figure a defence tactic for himself. Is this a drug-induced hallucination? He never thought the vigilante will be the one to kick him when he's down, quite literally. He's spent a few sleepless nights wondering about the face behind that mask, but he never thought he'd be able to picture a menacing grin on it. And like a magic trick, all affection he ever held for the guy just... withers away.

 _Focus, Victor, he's no man of your dreams, just another obstacle, just another bully - there must be a way to beat him. It's just like another Grand Prix Final; there must be a way to come back to the top of the game after flubbing a quad-triple loop._ He's done it before, and he'll do it again. Nobody defeats him that easy.

(It's a ridiculous line of thought, but given that the vigilante's suddenly out for his blood, it works.)

 _Pull yourself back. Study the surroundings. Profile your opponent. Strategize your attack._

Victor finds the aporia rather quickly; the vigilante always has a plan up his sleeve - he clearly has it elaborately figured in that helmet of his what he wants to do – it seems one break in his flowchart and he might just crumble to the ground. _Good_ , if that's how it is... Victor tries to focus his explosive energy on the series of raised platforms when the vigilante launches himself in the air – for one _misstep_ , and _yes,_ without the ledge his feet dive ahead of him and he crashes head-on into the rock hard ice.

Shielding his face against the splinters of rock and ice alike, Victor can't help but smile at his first victory.

Maybe he should've kept his celebrations short, because he lost sight of the vigilante again. _He's doing that sneak attack thing,_ Victorglances in all directions, warned but not sure if he has an answer to it. That's when it happens: Victor's thrown against the big mossy dilapidated wall, his world toppling over its axis and arms locked behind his back.

"I can whip you to my knees and make you beg for your death while you moan my name... a slight twist in the chokehold and I can break this dainty, fragile neck."

The vigilante's at least four inches shorter than him, and still somehow is able to keep him pinned against the surface. "I _hate_ you," and Victor means every word of it.

"That's funny because we could've been fuck-buddies."

Another blinding static between them and the vigilante's thrown back a few metres with the force of a punch. The spark's not quite like electricity, but maybe a little worse: depending upon the amount of hypothermic shock it can render a regular person unconscious, comatose or dead.

Right now, it does neither, but it's certainly sent the vigilante whirring in the mud, doubled up, staggering on his knees. Taking in those deep sharp breaths (of _panic_?) because Victor can hear the faint buzzing from the distance.

"Is that all you've got?" and suddenly, Victor's voice is colder than his fingertips.

It's not fair to strike a soldier that is down, so Victor waits for him to jump back on his feet. After a while of struggling, the vigilante just slumps on his back into the mud, spread-eagled and... somewhat ecstatic. "That... _that_ was awesome. You totally got me."

"Quite a masochist, aren't you?"

"Ugh," it seems like he's still reeling from the last blow, "Are you alright? I was assessing your skill-set. Sorry for riling you up. I was just trash-talking."

And he could've killed himself trying to pull that off. Victor walks into the midst of the icicles and holds out a hand to help him back to his feet. There's a whole tumult of love-hate feelings banking in his chest towards this self-sabotaging wreck of a vigilante. "Next time leave it to me before you out-drama the Kardashians. You don't really have a lot of good ideas in that eggshell of yours."

"Not sure if you're referring to my head or my helmet," the buzz, distorted as it is, somewhat calms from its cocky monotone to a soft chuckle. More human, and more... familiar.

"We could've spent this time making out instead, but whatever, your way works too."

"Calm down, Sparkles. I'll send you shuttling across the city if I pull my mask off. It's not that good of a face."

When Victor clasps his shoulder, it feels so petite under him; the vigilante's so shaken at the grab that funnily enough, he reminds of Yuuri. (He's been considering to tell Yuuri who he is, and if their friendship survives that _jolt_ , maybe Yuuri will start to find these peculiarities funny as well? A man can hope.) When he gazes from up close, he almost expects to see through the glass of the helmet and find a pair of eyes, but no, instead it's his own blue ones glinting through the slits on his mud-smeared mask, staring back at him. "Maybe we can give it a try."

"N-not tonight," the vigilante flips back, instead zipping open his much-sleeker-than-the-fanny-pack-from-last-night waist pocket (at this point Victor wonders if he's some kind of tailor in his civilian time). Did Victor just hear the vigilante _stutter_? "However, I do have an offer for you."

"...Okay?"

He tosses Victor what looks like a futuristic Bluetooth mini-headset. "It's a one-way transceiver I made. You can contact me with this. Although you might've to change the batteries since it underwent fifty trials this morning."

"...And is this your way of saying _here's my number, call me later_?" Victor winks for effect, though he doesn't know how much of it was visible through his eye-slits.

"I think I might be asking for... a partnership?"

 _Ba-dump._

Disregarding that unsteady heartbeat, Victor's lips curl into a smirk even as he shoves the transceiver thing in the inside of his jacket and flounces past him in a sing-song voice, "But then there's _no_ point in us hanging out together sticking our thumbs up our asses... is there..."

Had their lives not been on constant threat, they could've made a nice game out of guessing his expression inside his helmet, and as of now Victor can proudly bet his money on a big grimace. The vigilante's own dished-out comment thrown back at him is sugar upon a sweet victory.

"Drama queen."

* * *

Phichit Chulanont owns an Instagram account with 400k followers, two Twitters, and admins a mega-popular Facebook page about bioengineering memes. Anything that happens within his wide social circle is quick to surface on the internet as the Chulanont status of the day. Not to mention a 30 GB worth of backup in his Google drive that only consists of high-resolution embarrassing pictures, kept aside as special weaponry; often the less-scandalous ones come up on social media hashtagged as _ThrowbackThursday_.

And yet, everything that happens in his roommate's life somehow misses his radar.

Of course, Phichit has learnt the hard way how much Yuuri needs his space. Yuuri has always been private about himself. It's nothing new. But while things have been a little disjointed for a few months, they have blown up in proportion ever since Victor Nikiforov has stepped into their lives. And it's been, like, merely a week?

"I headbutted Victor," Yuuri told him this morning.

It's not a surprise anymore; Yuuri does a lot of odd things these days, like say, breaking into a kitchen (it's so uncharacteristic of him that Phichit can't even begin to explain; Yuuri isn't the type to intrude _just like that_ , sure, he does things out of curiosity but this isn't one of them. It's almost as odd as that one time two months ago when Yuuri got a bruised back out of nowhere in the morning, as if he threw himself against a wall in his sleep).

The first time they got together that he knows of, he saw Yuuri in Victor Nikiforov's clothes in his apartment, so he isn't shocked that their relationship has progressed to headbutts by now. The question, though, remains, "How come?"

"I don't know," he seemed genuinely confused, "I was panicking and Victor was trying to calm me down and then our faces came too close and I panicked a little too hard... then I tried to get out of the way but then he tried to get out of the way... and I clocked him on the chin, _by mistake_."

"Oh boy, did he take offence?" While Phichit hasn't yet encountered Victor in person, going by Yuuri's stories of him, he doesn't seem the type.

"I don't know, I didn't wait to see," he let out a low-key frustrated cry, shuffling under the tight clutch of the shirt's collar, "I apologised, and I _ran_. This is so embarrassing! I don't think I can ever face him again!"

Phichit wasn't sure where this new-born dramatic flair was coming from, and whether to laugh at that pathetic pout, because to his knowledge Victor keeps texting Yuuri at a rate too alarming for someone you have met for just a week, and there was no way this _friendship_ (?) can break over a headbutt.

"Yuuri, relax. He likes you."

"Yeah, because he hasn't made a lot of friends in campus so we keep hanging around -"

"No, he _like_ likes you."

"What do you mean?"

It meant Phichit needed to spell every character out for it to get through Yuuri's dense skull. It meant Phichit isn't buying that champion figure-skater Victor Nikiforov is actually having trouble making friends so he keeps clinging to this clueless and too-good-for-the-world science boy who's barely capable of keeping his love for skating or Victor himself a secret.

Wait, is Victor Nikiforov playing Yuuri? It certainly goes with the reputation of _Vogue'_ s _Most Desirable Bachelor_ of last year. Phichit hopes that isn't the case, for the sake of Victor's bones, at least. Maybe Victor is equally dense and they both managed to convince each other they're being just friends.

"You should be careful around him, Yuuri," he warned him, and for good reason, "I read some things... and... you know, he can be really fickle." Watching Yuuri stiffen, he added hastily, "Don't get me wrong, I love Victor, whatever I know of him, it's just... I hope you know what you're doing."

He has seen Yuuri hand his glass heart out only to have it broken and pick up the jagged pieces. He doesn't want to hear muffled sobs from the other side of the locked door. He doesn't want Yuuri to come out with red puffy eyes in the morning and somehow try to convince him that everything was okay. He doesn't want Yuuri to live through that hell again.

"He isn't like that," and suddenly, Yuuri went all defensive, "and we aren't like that. We are just friends. He's no god. He's silly and charming and I'm not in love with him... anymore. I just _like_ him."

After a self-contradictory sentence that formally defeated the purpose of the whole conversation, Phichit let it pass.

"Besides," shrugged Yuuri, "I have other things on my mind."

Of course Yuuri does. He has a ton of things in his mind and mind alone. And he won't even share. Phichit has no option but to play along the lie when Yuuri tells him he didn't get enough sleep because he was surfing the internet all night. When Yuuri's door closes at 9 o' clock, it's almost like Yuuri becomes a part of some other world. He never even opens the door for a midnight snack or a bottle of water, or anything at all.

And Phichit can't even blame Victor Nikiforov for this because things started changing way before, around seven-eight months ago. It hurts to think about how they used to play Counter Strike till 3 a.m in the morning, or watch some cheesy chick-flick or talk about their careers. Or the days when Yuuri has bad anxiety and Phichit pretends not to notice and sits by him, babbling all kinds of rubbish to cheer him up.

In the evening, they plan to bake a cake. Yuuri goes to the market to buy some eggs. On his way to the kitchen to prep stuff up, Phichit notices a pile of stray electrical equipment strewn around the floor of Yuuri's room. Apparently Yuuri has been making some kind of a gadget. Under the shelf, Phichit also spots a half-opened first aid box. He has no idea why Yuuri might need that big of an emergency kit just for himself.

Phichit simply sighs. The part that worries him, the part of Yuuri that not everyone knows of, is how promptly the boy brings trouble for himself.

"Oh, Yuuri. I hope you know what you're doing. Whatever you're doing."

* * *

"It's a big bright day, isn't it?"

"That's not what I asked, hag."

"Manners, Yura."

When Yuri bumps his rebellious fist against the café counter in response, standing ten feet apart and acting oblivious to their talk, Yuuri can almost feel the vibrations against his palm.

"Tell me," Yuri demands again, lifting himself up on his toes to be intimidating, and yet the woman ignores him. It's the same curious redhead from that night; Yuuri guesses if she's working undercover, her presence at the bomb site must've been unauthorized. That or the Detroit department is running out of trustworthy people.

"Look, boy, this is just information in return of information," the woman ruffles Yuri's hair even as he visibly cringes under the touch, "and only because Otabek said he trusts you, and he always trusts the right people. Otabek's not in the city. He traced the missing nurse to her aunt's place at Vancouver. Apparently she had died of high fever and trauma, but left a note and a drawing of a very scary looking man. There's all the chances that the man in the drawing might've murdered your – what should I call it – associate? William something?"

 _Associate?_

Yuri looks away and makes a noise that sounds like " _Hngh_ ," barely wanting to participate in the discussion anymore.

"You better not bother Otabek too much," the sergeant continues, "he's got too much on his head already, what with JJ's house blowing up and his wife almost dying. You realise what I'm saying, right? I don't even know how he handles you. I wanted to punch you so bad after you pulled that stint on me."

"Fuck off, Babicheva," Yuri grumbles under his breath.

"Respect the elders, Yura," the woman smirks, "I was just about to praise you. That address turned out to be some really dodgy place. Expect an easy bust... wait, I shouldn't have told you that. If you turn out to be some double agent, I'm gonna lose my job."

" _Tsk_ , is everything that spouts out of your mouth complete bullshit? If you can't trust me, you might as well fucking leave."

"You remind me of my younger days, Yura. Hot-headed, naïve, high as sky morals – oi, you, yes _you_ , what did you hear?"

Yuuri freezes in his position because he has just committed a rookie mistake; she must've noticed him standing in the same place scrubbing the same spot for the last ten minutes. He grins sheepishly, then tries to walk away but is halted again by a resounding " _Wait_ ".

"Who are you?" the sergeant questions further, her eyebrows furrowed together, "I've never seen you here before."

"My name is Yuuri Katsuki," he babbles without thinking, when Yuri puts himself between them, somewhat shielding him from the unwarranted scrutiny. "He's a new recruit," Yuri tells her casually, "He's been background checked."

"Hmm," the sergeant has her eyes fixed on him even as she passes them by, looking thoroughly unconvinced, "I'm going for some fresh air."

It's followed by Yuri's almost inaudible mumbling, "Go to hell, why don't you," and as soon as the sergeant goes out of earshot he punches Yuuri into the shoulder with his good hand, "Do you have a death wish? Why did you come back here?"

"Okay, first of all, _oww_ ," Yuuri doesn't understand why everyone keeps fixating on that. Wasn't it explicitly clear last day that he asked for a job?

"And why on earth were you overhearing us? You need to learn to keep your dumb nose out of things, I'm telling ya. It's not a game."

"I understand," is the most plausible answer that Yuuri can think of.

"And also," is when Yuri stops his scowling midway and looks over Yuuri's shoulder as if he spotted an odd bird, "What in the ever loving fuck is that doofus _doing_ out there?"

Yuuri turns, but it isn't the face he expects to see there 9:30 in the morning. "Victor?" he breaks into a smile, watching the silver-haired guy squishing his dopey grin against the glass door in an attempt to catch his attention; a thin string is entwined along his thumb that goes up, attached to a large balloon with a message ' _Congratulations on the job!_ '. Well, wow, Victor is... extra.

And Yuuri isn't even complaining. "What even... Victor, you didn't need to..." he trails off when he meets him outside the door, his heart swelling thrice its size.

"Of course, I did, Yuuri. You said it's important to you!" Victor hands over the balloon with a big heart-shaped smile, "I wanted to be your first customer! Am I late? Please tell me I'm not late."

"No, you're not, we just opened," Yuuri grins like there's a hanger stuck in his mouth, and he isn't even sure why. Maybe it's just the vague idea of someone making him feel special. "By the way, I learnt everything just an hour ago. The coffee's gonna suck, you sure you still wanna have it?"

"Yes!" Victor is too excited for his own good, "I'll be a regular from now on."

" _No,_ " it just comes out sharp and instant; if Yuri's words are anything to go by, Yuuri will make sure Victor is the last person to be anywhere around this wretched café, "I mean..."

Victor blinks confusedly. "Why not?"

"Uh, um," he stutters, alarmingly running out of ideas, "you know, work environment, and it'll be distracting - um, I mean, I'll really want to sit and talk to you but I'll be working..."

"Oh, I see," Victor mutters, not helping that the situation just slid into folds and folds of awkwardness now that Yuuri made it sound like a poorly made-up excuse to avoid him (right when yesterday's tragic Glasgow Kiss into Victor's chin flashes up; _he's going to hate me forever, time to panic panic panic_ ), "Well, I guess I'll see you at college then – "

He stops mid-sentence, but this time the reason appears to be the short blond punk boy barista leaning against the frame of the kitchen door, one hand in his pocket and the other, predictably, in the cast, staring daggers at him. It's almost like Victor doesn't know how to react, or has seen a face triggering his memory – and asking the name now will be plain-out rude – as if their relationship had once transgressed that phase.

"Just get away, geezer," Yuri rolls his eyes to the sky and slams the kitchen door behind him, leaving Victor, and to a certain extent Yuuri, befuddled.

"Yuuri, where have I seen him before?"

It may be a wild guess, but, Russia?

* * *

"It's showtime."

Is what Yuuri tells himself leaping down his flat window as early as 8:30 p.m at night. He leaves a mini-stereo on, and a mechanism of a rubber band a long length of charcoal attached to its end that is supposed to make scratching noises against the wall all night, so that Phichit would think Yuuri's doing – _something_ – making some sort of apparatus in his room that he doesn't want to share. He hopes he'll be able to explain and apologize to his roommate later.

However, when Yuuri arrives following the sergeant's car to the spot, he doesn't expect a deadlock of a situation.

"They have hostages," an policeman tells the sergeant when she prods, "children."

Children? How? Why? Did they get prior information of the bust? Was the whole writing-info-on-tissue-paper-and-handing-out-to-innocuous-waiter a bluff? Luckily, the sergeant has similar questions on her mind.

"No, we caught them in the middle of something," she gets told, "it might be a trafficking ring. But right now we can't proceed until we get the kids out."

"Where the fuck is JJ when you need him?!"

There is no point wasting time anymore with this bunch with so many lives at stake. He swoops out into the distance and tries his way past from the back of the building. He'd expected some kind of cliché warehouse but it turns out to be somewhat of an abandoned administrative building – squarish, three floored with a small imprint of a person hovering to and fro on the roof with a megaphone and a rifle – and a barely conscious child under his grappling hold.

It's a two-way tactic; the man on the roof is a negotiator and an informant in case the police decides to bring, say, a helicopter. The hostages must be stacked together somewhere in the middle floor; the armed criminals must be scattered more towards the entrances. It's impossible to sneak the hostages out without creating a ruckus, given they're children and Yuuri doesn't know how many. He needs to clear out either of the entrances first.

He starts from the bottom – a room that leads to a long corridor, surprisingly empty, followed by a certain checkpoint, then a small hall where –

"What the _hell_ ," Yuuri's shoulders slump into a sigh as he examines the pile of guns in the corner and a number of unconscious men beside it, laid into a formation that – _are you kidding me_ – spells out 'loser'. There's a noticeable trail of frost glistening under one of the necks and Yuuri doesn't need to throw guesses anymore.

"Reunion in the hall?" and there _he_ is, with that hood and the mask and that unreadable smirk, pulling yet another knocked out criminal by his legs to the heap.

"What are you doing here?!"

"Uh, I called _you_ here."

"No, you didn't!" Is the Ice Guy perpetually high?

"Yes, I did," he retorts, pulling off the transceiver Yuuri gave him last night, "through _this_." Before he cross-checks it, and scratches the back of his hood, accepting sheepishly, "Wait, I didn't. I forgot to turn it on. So, what _are_ you doing here?"

"Same as you. Rescuing the kids. When did you arrive?"

"Around fifteen minutes ago. Right before the police came and complicated everything."

"Wait up, you knewabout the kids _before_ the police arrived?"

"Listen, I came here looking for a little girl. I told you about her. I didn't know there are more kids. Let's get moving then, we're losing precious time."

Yes, sure, because Yuuri's the one who arranged all these knocked-out mercenaries into a formation. In any case, he feels a little guilty about not paying attention to the little girl's case, so he trails after the Ice Guy's flouncing gait without complain. "Can you please be a little subtle?"

Like always, Ice Man scores a zero at cooperativeness. Luckily, it's a struggle-free job but for stunning a few more gunmen, when they finally strike down the door to the hostage room.

The sight makes Yuuri's insides clench in pity. "Let's get going," he says, more to himself that anyone else to get his stiffened legs to move again. There has to be at least a dozen children – fourteen to be precise – traumatised to an extent that none of them even heed to their intrusion; the sullen, malnourished faces simply gape at each other and into the distance.

"Are they... drugged?" When the other guy asks one of the children to move, she complies without question, tear lines long dried along her cheeks, a bruised blunt patch on her head where some bastard must've forced the hair out. "They seem sedated to me." His voice shakes. "We're done here. Let's leave."

"There's one more. On the roof."

It seems he had no idea about it. "Let me –"

"No," Yuuri interrupts, and then takes in a deep breath, "He's hovering. It's not possible to slink on him. I'll get the child and snatch that megaphone. I'll tell the cops to come up from the backdoor. We'll have a minute max after that, so protect the kids until you hand them over."

"But – "

"Protect the kids. I _trust_ you," he thrusts him the responsibility with a stubborn finality, sprints into the narrow corridor and springs onto a ledge, vanishing into the darkness. If they survive the night, maybe they can plan the minuscule of decision-making in their partnership later. Maybe flip a coin next time.

* * *

"It's over. Let that child go."

Yuuri has never been great at damage control, but right now, he has to do it or die trying. He was deceived by a shadow of a water tank and misjudged the gunman's position, and now they're circling each other like hungry wolves, wary of movement – the gunman pointing the weapon at him and threatening to throw the child slumped in his arms twenty feet down to the concrete.

The gunman's fast, but Yuuri's way faster – he falls prey to his textbook sneak attack: the rifle flies out of range even as Yuuri locks the man's wrists behind his back, pulling the unconscious child out of his grasp. A blow to the back of the head that knocks out the senses, following which Yuuri reaches out for the battered megaphone abandoned on the parapet.

" _Hostages are safe, to the back!"_ His hearts throbs so loud in his ears he can hardly hear what he's speaking. " _Hostages, safe! Backdoor! Hostages are safe –_ "

The megaphone flips in the air and Yuuri scrambles into the dark stairs, thwacking to a stop against his back and somehow managing to keep a hold on the child. His head is sent reeling from what felt like a gratuitous hit of a brick to the jaw, before he catches on with the sight before him.

"Okay, that's Frankenstein," and Yuuri knows that isn't even borderline funny.

That _cannot_ be a human. Over seven feet tall, a wide monstrous frame, a square jaw, a shirt stretched over his body torn at almost all joints, and raging, unrepentant eyes that happen to look upon Yuuri as if he's about to deliver God's judgment while he thuds each step down.

Yuuri gets up and runs; with the child in his arms, defense will be his best offense against this monster of a man.

There's a small opening to the left, but before he can consider jumping through, the man breaks off half a dilapidated wall and catapults the bunch of bricks at them. Yuuri bends down and rolls over – _what the fuck is even happening_ – arms around the child's head. By now the opening has turned into a dead end; the whole structure of the floor shakes – but nothing seems to deter that fact that the monster-man has murder on his mind.

Yuuri backs against the heap of rubble. His stomach leaps; the wall is too thick for him to punch another opening through – there's no escape anymore. He senses a crack in his helmet; a thin line of light hitting the eye. By the time he glances back, the man has uprooted the thick steel pillar above his shoulders and sent it hurling through the air with the force of a canon ball.

This is it. His sweat-clammed back sticks against the surface. He wraps himself around the child in all ways he can; he knows what's coming, and there's no surviving it.

 _This sucks. Phichit's gonna be so mad. And Victor too. Victor..._

And then, everything collapses.

The wall behind him explodes under the pressure – shards of glass and concrete raining around them – but not before the impact is suddenly cushioned by a giant block of ice: the entire floor disintegrates faster than anyone could comprehend; even as Yuuri's sent flying in the air he manages to keep a hold on the kid, and grab a hook with the other hand. Neither of them are injured apart from Yuuri sensing like someone just punched the air out of his lungs... and he soon sees why.

* * *

"Please be okay. _Please_ be okay."

His new, stupidly noble partner just saved his life.

Now that the children are safe and the police broken in and taken charge, Yuuri pulls out of the chaos and lays him in a quieter place before he can take a look at his partner's injuries. Panic bubbling at his throat, Yuuri hates how limp and lifeless the guy looks, the mask intact but not much remaining of the hood; he hates how he doesn't have a constant, sincere name to call him by.

Yuuri scrambles at his utility bag; it isn't of much help – all he has is a little bit of gauze and a small bottle of Betadine – there's no way it can help with an arm impaled with a long iron shard that just doesn't stop oozing blood.

Yuuri presses his thumb over the wrist. At least the guy has a slow but steady pulse, it being the only speck of relief. His cloth mask is soaked with blood; the blood had dribbled down his chin and clotted around his neck.

"Hey, wake up. Please wake up," Yuuri tries in vain. He has no idea how bad his internal injuries are, or if the wound under his mask is still bleeding, and he can't risk it anymore; he needs to take him to a hospital.

But.

Should he take off the Ice Guy's mask, dress him as a civilian before he rushes him to the hospital, or should he just take him as he is and launches his secret identity out in the open? There is no time to waste. There is no time to think.

He makes an impulse decision.

 _I'm sorry_ _I'm having to invade your privacy to save your life_ , Yuuri whispers to himself as he reaches out a trembling hand to pull off the mask, heart thumping in his chest like a funeral drum. _It's just me. Nothing's going to change._


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter eight

* * *

"Whaaaa – "

"– Aaaaaa –"

"– aaaa _oww_."

Victor blinks at the looming gloved hand closing in right on his face, and before his brain can even process it, he scuttles out of the way. The haste causes him to hit his injured arm against the wall; the white-hot pain blacks out all reason and an infantile cry escapes his throat.

He touches his own face for a familiar feel of a fabric and yes, the mask is still there – slimy, bloody and itchy, but there. "Are you alright?"

"I should be asking that," the vigilante replies; he sounds tense, but frankly in a better shape than Victor is. "You need to go to a hospital."

"No, I don't," he tells him nonchalantly. He ought to explain how his body works; the wound on his forehead has already healed – it's just the spilt blood clotted and slicked uncomfortably on his skin. Now only if the vigilante had gone for that iron thing stuck in his arm rather than his mask, the tissue there too would've fused as new.

"No, you do," he resists.

"You can't order me around, vigilante," Victor is too tired to argue, "Help me get that thing out of my arm."

"If I wrench it out of you, I'm gonna do more damage than good. I might accidentally hit an artery and you'll bleed to death –"

"Look, I appreciate the concern, but do as I say," Victor gasps impatiently, "As soon as the pains stops going _boom boom_ in my ears, I'll explain it. Just trust me and do it."

The vigilante doesn't look like he's to move from his position any time soon, so Victor proceeds to draw it out himself. It must be just like ripping off a band-aid. And it's not like he'll have to suffer through the after aches. It'll heal before he knows it. Hopefully.

However, the moment he so much as touches the iron piece, he flinches. His arm is throbbing like an animal close to death. "Wait," he suddenly senses the vigilante's fingers rubbing in circles across his skin to comfort the area, and a tourniquet made from a piece of cloth tied right above the wound, "Let me."

"Are you... sure?"

"Don't confuse me now. You said it'll be okay. I just hope you know your way around these things. Do you heal fast or something?"

"Pretty fast."

"I guessed," the vigilante slowly massages the injured arm, "Okay, I'm gonna do it. Don't think about the pain. Are you ready?"

"Yeah, pull it out in a single stroke if you can. Hard and fast."

"... That sounded dirty."

What starts as a wry laugh turns into a shrill cry when the vigilante rips the piece out of the flesh; it's almost like someone grated Victor's arm under an electric saw – the agony singes into every nerve, turns into a loud beeping in his ear, into bright spots of light dizzying the soul out of him. He clenches his teeth, he can't take it _anymore_ – he thinks he's about to faint.

"It's done, it's done," the vigilante heaves a long sigh, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Victor mouths but no voice comes out, let alone a pitched one. He takes in a deep breath – the _beeping_ fades as soon as the healing begins – he can almost sense the tissues knit up even as he swallows down the inane physical urge to scratch on it. "Thank you."

"It's actually _healing_! Do get yourself a tetanus shot though," the vigilante seems a little awestruck at the moment to properly focus, "and yeah, thank _you_. Actually, not. Because what the fuck where you thinking out there!?"

"I wasn't," he confesses. Honestly, back then there wasn't any time. He didn't even command his powers, just put himself between them. Had it not been for that solid, rock-hard block of ice (something he hardly ever creates, it's usually flakier and pointier), his careless stunt wouldn't have helped anybody.

"So how come you ended up at the mafia base?"

"Went to a police station," he rewinds his story from the start, "thought I'd get some first-hand information on the little girl. There wasn't a report – or anything – whole lot of confusion right there, but I convinced the officer to file one. And then it was this and that – and the officer spouts some secrets and I find out they're bribed to silence and then he asks me to tail a car – at this point he was pretty scared of me, guess it's the hood – so, I take a cab and –"

"You took a _what_ –"

"Hey, not fair, I can't run like you! So I take a cab and _bam_ , there I am. Might've threatened a few people, broken a few laws in between. But I found her, and the whole lot, so I guess it was worth the pain?"

"Learnt the tricks of the trade pretty quick, haven't you? Not like I was doing a great job out there..." the vigilante drifts off, and from the little which could be figured through that robotic buzz of a voice, he sounds – hurt. "But don't do _that_ again. Don't put your life on line like that again."

"Like I said, you can't order me around," says Victor, giving his shoulder a little squeeze and flexing his healed arm out, "And all was well. So let's drop it. Additionally, at the inauguration of our partnership, we have a more important question to address."

"Jesus Christ, why d'you keep talking like that? Are you some kind of a public figure?"

Victor thinks his heart just missed a beat. Note to self: _screw around a little less when the partner's deductive skills are that good._ "Sliding from the point again?"

"You got me," he raises his arms a bit in a mock gesture of surrender; Victor is dead sure the man is smirking under that damned helmet again, "put forth the burning question."

"Ah, yes," Victor clears his throat and waits for a dramatic pause, "the question is... who's gonna be the _sidekick_?"

The vigilante folds his arms and begins to walk across the space to the ledge, gazing out at the skyline of the sleeping city. "You can have the classic hood-against-the-moon image for yourself all you like, but I gotta break it to you... that's gonna be you, my dude."

"Oh, come on, you were _born_ to be a sidekick. Keep that cockiness under control and you're a splitting image of Robin."

"That is _so_ not true."

"That cockiness is not dwelling well on your public image either, Eros." _I love it, but that's a different topic altogether._

"Then, by all means, teach me your charms," the sarcasm comes off so strong that even the monotone of the pitch distorter cannot disguise it, "Be my coach?"

Victor's wonderment about the emotionally-stunted welcome to what seems like a dangerous affair just went ten times better now that he knows the jibes are going to be a regular give-and-take part of the package deal.

"Is it a pact, then, sidekick?"

* * *

In the next month, days and nights seem to fuse together.

So much to do, and yet Yuuri seems to be stuck at the same point like a broken recorder. He falls and falls, and keeps falling. Maybe to the point of frustration.

Luckily, he manages these thoughts to keep him preoccupied during his short bedtime. Other than that, it's almost as if he's living the days of his life; he'd been somewhat afraid to introduce Victor to a slightly sceptical Phichit, but thank Goodness, _that_ worked like magic. To a fault really, because mostly they bond over a united mission to make Yuuri more social-media savvy.

Cue birth of an Instagram account with a lone picture of him covering his face with a quantum physics book that somehow scores a massive 17000 likes, thanks to v_nikiforov (1.3M followers) and chu_mechanics (400k followers). "It's because you're so cute, Yuuri!" Victor chimes in, and to his horror, Phichit agrees.

It is one day at the university greens during one of those regular occasions with Victor dramatically crying over his ill-advised physics optional and Yuuri obliged to tutor him; Yuuri is scratching out a rough diagram explaining oscillations when Victor's mind flies off the bars and he exclaims, "Now I remember!"

"The equation?"

His blue eyes sparkle in their Eureka moment but he doesn't answer him right away. "Yuuri," he hums for a while, "that boy at the café, was his name by any chance Yuri Plisetsky?"

"Uhm," Yuuri can only vouch for his first name, "Maybe...?"

"I _knew_ he looked familiar!"

The face Yuri made that day on seeing Victor wasn't even close to what one might call _friendly_ , so Yuuri doesn't know how to put it. He tries, nevertheless. "You know him, Victor?"

"Not really," he answers, before he spaces out like he's musing over a fond memory, "There was this boy who used to come to our rink at St. Petersburg. His family wasn't well off, I heard Yakov took most of the expenses on himself – well, he does that a lot. I kept hearing about him, that he's really great. Until I saw him in a competition one day, and he was really _really_ good. Kind of bratty, insolent though. Like me, I guess," he laughs at that, "It was Junior Worlds, and he pulled off a quad right there, like a fuck you at the judges, and he was twelve! Of course, Yakov was breathing fire. Anyway, I managed to mediate and promised him I'll choreograph the best senior debut for him, _if_ and only if he wins the Worlds without any quads. He was really riled up at that, in a good way. But he disappeared right before the finals, and I never heard of him again. In four years, everyone else forgot about him too."

Yuuri wonders what must've happened that Yuri went from being hailed as the next Victor Nikiforov to being shot at under bright daylight and working part-time with Detroit's crime department (and calling criminals _associates_ ). Victor, obviously, understood a part of it, perhaps even less. For Victor, Yuri is a sad child prodigy who curses as a defense mechanism and earns a living through waitering in the café, and soon enough, the guilt of not being able to fulfil his promise begins to gnaw him from within.

As a consequence, Victor tries to talk (in vain), calls him by a sweet diminutive ("Yura," although Yuuri thinks it's a common thing amongst Russians), and unheeding Yuuri's warnings completely, hoards a lot of his time at the café. In Yuuri's lovechild of an effort to help their situation and shift the meeting spot to a safer place, regular lunches and dinners at Phichit and Yuuri's tiny flat spring up.

While their living room can hardly contain more than five, the circle keeps growing bigger: Yuri joins unwillingly, Phichit one afternoon when he ends up with a free shift, that friendly sergeant (her name is Mila, and she brings a girlfriend in the next day), the intense cop (Otabek, the only person Yuri doesn't make a face at), even Christophe Giacometti out of nowhere one day. It's like one small family of oddballs.

"Welcome to P&Y's!"

Phichit announces like an event manager every time the doorbell rings. In a month, it becomes a comfort zone. Yura doesn't even knock anymore; trots in and makes his way to the PS console. Victor thinks the little flat is the coziest, happiest place in the city, and of course, it's hard to argue when he brings Makkachin. He is unsurprisingly bad at video games what with him having the attention span of a teaspoon, and often blames it on the unaware poodle. He hogs Yuuri into his team every time, and once they lose (which is always) there's a long laugh-and-cry exchange between him and Yura – in the middle of which Phichit escapes and Yuuri just sighs – that escalates to dramatic Russian proportions and marks the end of fun time.

It's late afternoon, and Yuuri has been typing out a midterm essay, and Victor has dozed off over a notebook to the soft tinkle of music. Yuuri watches him, the mellow sunshine bouncing off his silver hair and the tiny dribble of drool on his half-opened mouth, like he's in a happy dream, when he suddenly opens his eyes.

"What are you looking at?"

"Uh," Yuuri scrambles for cover and in the haste the laptop flops onto his lap. "Nothing," he's more taken aback at Victor's mildly curious tone and the mysterious smiling that follows it.

"You are blushing."

"I always blush." He responds without thinking.

"Fair enough," Victor accepts, pushing his chair out, the crooked bent of the smile still on his face. He yawns and stretches while Yuuri pretends to work, "My joints have become so stiff ever since I stopped practicing. Yuuri, let's dance!"

With Victor, there's no predictability. "Huh?" Yuuri does a double-take, and before he knows it Victor is pulling him to his feet.

"Nothing too intense," he adjusts Yuuri's left hand on his shoulder and holds up the right, "Just slow dancing. Follow my feet."

Yuuri grins nervously, a little too conscious about the hand that rests on Victor's shoulder, and almost panicking about Victor's on his waist. His stomach flips, and he thinks he might be hungry. Not that he can think too straight with his brain short circuiting from time to time. "So we move in a square at a 1-2-3 beat," Victor leads him, "One, two, three. Yeah, just like that. One, two..."

"This is kinda romantic," Yuuri chuckles. But for Victor's beloved gloves.

"Trust me, Yuuri, I danced all my life and it wasn't borderline romantic."

"Not even the Swan Lake FS?"

"The Swan Lake one was supposed to be tragic, looks like I failed momentously."

" _No_ , it was beautiful!" Yuuri persists, " That twist at the end, I cried like a baby."

"You're so kind, Yuuri," he says; his bright smile fades into something rueful, "but I've run out of surprises. Nothing surprises me anymore. Pleasantly, at least."

"Really, Victor, did you not say you fell in love?" Just never told him who it is, whether it's handsome Jim from the rowing association who's running for the Olympics this year, or that frat president, or some budding skater – only that whoever it is, swept him off his feet at first sight.

" _Love_ is a word too strong to use for that."

"It didn't work out?"

"Let's just say it didn't work out exactly the way I wanted and I'm not surprised."

All of a sudden, the song shuffles and Yuuri switches hands, holds Victor's waist and reaches out for his other hand as Victor stares on. He leads now; his grip is stronger, and yet he manages to remain tender; as he does a quarter turn – Victor twirls on cue – they pivot and the waltz turns into a happier, jazzier version of itself. "Cheer up, will you!" Yuuri voices over the sound of music.

"You _can_ dance! That's sneaky, Yuuri, why didn't you tell me?" Victor mock-whines, his eyes wide and shining.

 _I wanted to surprise you_. It's not like Yuuri can tell him everything. It's not like he can tell him there's always a risk that he might not see Victor, or anyone, again the next morning. It's not like he can tell him he's in so deep in love that he can't even deny it anymore, so deep in love that he's happy with what he has, content with the stasis of Victor's friendship, content that it might never change into love.

"You didn't ask."

* * *

Otabek has been exhausted lately.

Chasing after a seemingly untraceable murderer on the loose hasn't let him catch a breather. While certainly protected by the mafia, the man has no history, no photograph, no name, apart from a few sightings and a physique too big not to draw attention in a city as sparsely populated as this one. It just doesn't add up.

Sometimes it feels like a wild goose chase. Otabek would've shunned the idea of finding someone based on a sketch by a woman traumatized to delusion if the man hadn't been sighted again at a trafficking bust, where he smashed a building to smithereens during a brawl with the vigilantes. It goes in sync with the concept of squashing skulls with bare hands. Makes the officers a little sick too. Gives them something to holler about.

 _Wait_ , the vigilantes. The vigilantes might know something about him, at the very least, must've seen the face – if he'd known the search was going to be this fruitless he'd have called them sooner – but call them how –

His phone vibrates in his palm.

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 _ **Wendy's is fucking overpriced** _  
_15:07_

And again.

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 _ **I think I just spent half of this month's paycheck getting a lunch lol** _  
_15:08_

And yet again.

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 _ **I'm hogging Katsudon's fridge tomorrow** _  
_15:08_

His peace is perturbed by the noise of sluggish footsteps. It's JJ – and frankly, it's a surprise to see him in the office – at this time of day, he's usually known to wheelchair his wife to her physiotherapist's clinic. In the last month Otabek hasn't had the time to formally give the couple his condolences, and thinks it's too late now. Showing sympathy now will only provoke JJ into anger and tears – it seems he's still having a hard time controlling both. That smirk, the one that made him look like an overconfident Grade-A asshole, is gone.

"Is he here yet?" He asks Otabek grimly.

"Is who here yet?"

"I was told that some guy came to the reception and said that he has information on the wanted man."

Given JJ's state of mind, it won't be a surprise if he has actually imagined it in his head; thankfully, before Otabek has to put such doubts in words a corporal comes in and confirms JJ's credibility. Indeed, a man arrived half an hour ago saying he has shocking information.

"Name?"

"God."

"Come again?"

" _Bog, da, do zla boga_...anything. All same."

"Look I need the name," Otabek insists, ignoring the little speck of annoyance bobbing at his temple. JJ coughs, gesturing him to carry on. "Never mind. Tell us everything you know."

The man in the questioning room lightens up at the order, his bluish eyes glinting. It's a regular man, or so he hopes, in regular clothes, dirty-blond hair that falls across his forehead in shafts, pale skin and a slight Russian hint in ethnicity. He holds up an old newspaper, teetering in excitement, "Five murders in hospital. I _vatch_ them die."

His strong Russian accent throws them off a bit. He can't be a local with an accent that strong. JJ fires, "Were you a patient then?"

"Do you not get it? I _vatch_ , they die. I order, they die. I kill, they die. I _kill_ them."

Otabek's brow furrows, followed with a hasty exchange of glances with his more-experienced partner.

"Let me explain," the man straightens up in his seat, almost laughing at this point, "this is straight line. There - obstacles. To remove obstacles – more obstacles. You know survival of the fittest? So he prove. He hold the head and lift it up and just – _bang_ it against the wall. Bang, bang, and _bang_ – then it cracks. Like a nut. Not strong, so the people is dead. Get it? He is God's right hand."

"He's a lunatic," JJ scratches his head, perhaps given up into listening the man's story halfway, "take him away. If you don't get the fuck out of my sight immediately, I'm gonna arrest you for wasting police's time."

"Your girl survived the fireworks, policeman," the man giggles after JJ as a corporal drags him out of the room, "did you not like the gift?"

It takes all of Otabek's strength to restrain JJ from taking his gun out of the holster and going after the mad man. " _Control_ , JJ," Otabek yells against the sound of muffled giggling that reverberates in the space; physically wrestling with the senior officer at this point, he makes a last-ditch attempt to beat in some sense, "it's a mad guy. He's only acting out what he's read in the newspapers. You're doing what he wants you to do!"

"Get off me," JJ snaps at Otabek instead, and adjusts his own jacket. The little skirmish has already caught some attention and people are peeking out of their cabins, crowding up the narrow hallway. Otabek lets him easy, as JJ checks the time on the clock and slumps on a bench, face buried in his palms.

"Water?" asks Otabek, as he catches the faint sound of a sniff.

"No, thanks."

"With so many loons in the city at the same time, I guess you're finally losing your mind, JJ."

"Stay in your division, Seung-Gil Lee."

There is a smug click of tongue in response to JJ's snarl, as the sergeant from the Trafficking Department with an infamously thick pair of eyebrows and a few rare words to spare, makes a turn and ushers them to follow him back to his cabin. "I would've, if you lot hadn't been so laughably bad at your jobs."

Otabek doesn't understand what the point is in riling up an already riled-up JJ. Regardless, JJ doesn't reply. Seung-Gil Lee saunters to the back, taps on his keyboard a few good times and flips the monitor around to face them. "The bust that you carried out on 18th June isn't a regular one. Especially its victims."

They were all children, more or less around the same age. That's how most human trafficking rings are. JJ counter-questions. "What d'you mean?"

"Look at this list. Jane Philman, age 10, a national level champion at chess last year. No kidnapping ever reported. Hugh Kowalewski, age 9, won an international math Olympiad two years ago – again, never reported missing. And the list goes on. The point is, all of them were overachievers and their families told the society they were being sent outside the country, when in real they were... _which_ is abnormal, and I can say, whatever the purpose of the mafia was, it wasn't to sell them to the sex market. I can't be sure if you've freed them all either."

"The plot just keeps thickening, doesn't it?" JJ low-key sneers in his old, snarky voice, "I like it. Haven't had a good case in a while."

"JJ, they are children," Otabek interrupts, "A little sensitivity, please?"

"This is as sensitive as it gets, Altin. Don't make it sound like I'm manhandling actual children. It's time you stop letting your emotions cloud those Aviators," says the man who almost shot a madman because he threw a taunt at his wife, "Buckle up and find the man. Find that man and the case will be solved."

("JJ, you giant penis," and there goes a booming comment in the back of Otabek's head. He sinks into his seat, and pulls up his phone instead. He hasn't replied to Yuri's string of texts, and he never keeps him hanging.) "Yes... _sir_."

"Also, only one girl was ever reported missing," Seung-Gil adds as an afterthought, blissfully unaware of the tension between the two, "Chelsea Hoover. Was probably kidnapped long back, but the report was made the day of the bust. Apparently it was made by the loon in a hood who threatened to freeze the officer's ass. Literally."

* * *

"You gave an interview?!"

Yuuri continues to gawk over the Ice Guy's shoulder as he scrolls down the article, "And you took a picture with the firemen?"

If only the Ice Guy hadn't kept insisting an entire month to call himself and Yuuri _Ice_ _Daddy_ and _Eros_ respectively ("Why do you call me Eros? It sounds I save people with the power of my butt!"), they might be been able to figure decent names for themselves and not be stuck in the generic mesh of _Ice Guy – Elsa – Sparky – Snow Queen – Vigilante – Eros Man – Sexy Back – Eggshell_ (yes, _his_ side of the spectrum is fancier, and _Eggshell_ comes up only when he's pissed).

"They were impressed with my fire dousing abilities," he keeps scrolling casually, then pauses at the actual text of the article, "they wanted you too. I told them Eros is allergic to group pictures. Or happiness in general. And what, they edited out the part where I asked them to call me Ice Daddy! This oppressive country, where's my right to free speech?"

"Yeah, no wonder why," Yuuri rolls his eyes, before snatching the tablet from his hands, "Show me. You broke the screen last day, didn't you. Wait, it's not even the same tab. How _rich_ are you?"

"Well, to put it modestly, I own the Wayne industries."

"Very funny, Elsa."

It is indeed a legitimate interview, with pictures of him posing galore: some even have white streaks Photoshopped upon his hands. He's become the spokesman in their partnership; he's made them go viral over the internet with criminal flinging and sweet talking about justice; by some miracle he has also managed to get Yuuri off the Wanted list (Yuuri is pretty certain this one was coincidental), and now he's giving away three page long interviews, half of which are roundabout questions craving information about/a picture of the Recluse or the Eros vigilante (he _cannot_ believe the name actually caught up). Naturally, it's also led to some negative publicity ( _News Flash:_ _**DANGEROUS CLOWNS ON LOSE IN DETROIT?)**_ and a cursed line of Eros T-shirts that can't figure the shape of his helmet to save its life.

"Did you see that," the Ice Guy tells him, "they've put big bucks as reward on the man's head – the big one, the Incredible Hulk who almost killed me in that trafficking bust?"

"Yeah, I heard," he hums, "hey, they call you The Wizard. That's kinda cool."

"It's not, it makes me sound like I'm going to pop a rabbit out of my top hat. And where's the creativity? In all of my life, I –"

At that, Yuuri makes a coughing noise, "Ground rules."

"Right, sorry. No talking about personal life."

When the article ends on a sappy, gossipy note (' _When will our saviors bestow the kiss™? Only time shall tell_.'), Yuuri dismisses it, puts the tab aside and falls on his back to the surface, stargazing at the sky. It is a semi-peaceful night, and they've just returned from hauling up a store robbery. There's an uneasy sensation in his stomach; he's about to bring up a dreaded subject.

"I should apologize for that day. We didn't talk about it again."

"There's no need to apologize," it's a sharp, instant reply, and when Yuuri glances at him, he's browsing through the news again, the glow of the screen striking his eyes, exposing a pale shade of blue, "You were being honest."

"I must've hurt your feelings."

"They were bound to be hurt sooner or later."

" _No_ ," Yuuri rasps out immediately. The general idea is, Yuuri should've handled it more maturely. It's not the guy's fault that Yuuri was pining after Victor when the poor guy confessed that his flirtations are more than friendly, or that Yuuri's self-esteem issues are so screwed up that he was just taken aback at the idea of someone liking him and shouted a "no" he never meant to, and never pulled the subject up again. "Listen, you don't deserve that. I owe you my life already and -"

"You don't owe anything to me, Eggshell. I was doing my job."

"Yes, but no. Just... hear me out. Please?"

There's a long, pregnant pause. The guy reaches out for the radio and turns the dialer around for police signals while Yuuri fidgets with his fingers, trying to formulate the words.

"See, here's the thing. I get caught up in my head a lot. I overthink stuff, and on top of it, I've got my... civilian part to do. I guess you do too, that's not the point. The point is –"

"The point is very clear, vigilante. You are in love but not with me. Just own up and say it. You must be a doof in your day life."

Yuuri guzzles a large blob down his dry throat. "Yes, it's... it's kinda true. Except..." _except it's only natural that the one you are in love with is in love with someone else_ , "except it isn't a two way street. I just want to say that, there might be some time in the future when I'm frustrated again, and I don't want you to be at the receiving end of it. If I ever ask you for a kiss, reject me. Better still, give up on me because there's little chance I'll ever return your feelings to you."

"That is funny," he lets out a humourless chuckle, "now tell me something. How soon are _you_ planning to give up, on whoever this lucky brat is?"

The answer to it should've been easy. "Disturbance at the coast," Yuuri shrugs, and turns to the radio, "Let's go."

And then there's a honey-voiced whisper, a hit of cold breath into the crease of Yuuri's neck.

(Yuuri shivers. For someone with super-developed senses and a regular history of violent intimidation, he shouldn't have.)

"Oh, you hypocrite."

* * *

Yuri doesn't understand the purpose of standing on the pavement at 4:30 in the morning with all the luggage in the world he has ever possessed.

It all came down to Otabek's sudden text. First he ignores Yuri, and then mysteriously asks him to pack all his things and be waiting for him at 4 in the morning. And now the dumb cop is late.

It's a little scary. Yuri knows he might be getting shifted to some other place, and Otabek perhaps didn't have the heart to tell that to his face. Most people would kill to leave this cat-and-mouse _mindfuckery_ between the police and the mafia, especially the damp-ass guarded dump he lives in, but he isn't sure if he's too happy to go, now that he's found some of his long-gone stability.

It's not like he's going to miss anybody. It's not like that. Especially Katsudon and Victor. They are both... idiots. They're like, disgustingly in love, but Yuri guesses they've never seen themselves in a mirror or no one's ever told them about it, so they _think_ they're friends. What's even that about? Whatever, if these so-called adults can't sort their feelings out for themselves, he isn't gonna set their shit straight for them.

Also, Katsudon low-key hates his favourite T-shirt. He knows it, because Katsudon keeps pointing how the company got the shape of the cool vigilante's helmet wrong time and again. _Pfft_ , like he knows better. It's not like the Eros vigilante has a picture in public media under daylight or that isn't blurred by his speed. And it makes sense that an over-polite rule-abiding nerd like Katsudon doesn't fancy a badass lawbreaker. And Yuri isn't likely to miss anyone who isn't a fan of the cool vigilante.

And that Victor, he _says_ he's a fan; that old geezer even tried to steal Yuri's thunder, but Yuri just knows that deep down Victor's loyalties lie with the other vigilante, because one day he simply asks, "What about the other one? Isn't he _cooler_?"

"You mean, the magic show?"

And that shut the baldy up for the whole day. Talk about being a sensitive fanbase.

 _Wait, it was a pun_. It strikes Yuri now. Oh well, too late. Victor's glittery tears have already been shed.

Unlikely that he'll miss those group dinners and silly-ass banters. Maybe the dog. No, not even the dog. Dogs are needy and way too fluffy. He's a cat person through and through.

It's still dark as Yuri watches the fog glow with the headlight of the incoming motorbike that makes the empty road look like a long tunnel. It's Otabek, and under that safety helmet of his, he doesn't look even slightly apologetic about being late.

"That's it?" he asks Yuri, glancing at the two duffel bags in his either hands, "That's your entire luggage?"

"I didn't have much to begin with," Yuri speaks lowly. There's hardly anything in those, apart from a few sets of clothes and a collection of pictures.

Otabek grabs the heavier one and ties it to the back of his bike, "Can you carry the other one on your lap?"

"I thought you were expecting more luggages," he smirks, "Where are we going anyway?"

"To my place."

Yuri isn't a hundred percent sure what was just implied, but it certainly gives his heart a nauseating throb. Maybe, Otabek just wants him to catch a break and have breakfast before he's sent off to... wherever he's being sent off. No matter how he looks at it, he's just a street level thug after all.

Yuri reaches out to grab onto the biker's jacket but holds his bag to his chest instead as the morning wind swooshes through his hair. The idea of a policeman and a thug is as odd as it sounds. It's better to keep his expectations low... _dammit_ , he's beginning to sound like Katsudon.

"Hah, this looks like a nice place to live," Yuri comments as soon as Otabek unlocks the door to his apartment. He'd meant to sound casual but the compliment was sincere; it does look like a nice, livable place. Slightly big for one person, perhaps. He makes a beeline at the small collection of vinyl beside an open window. "You _are_ a forty year old soul."

"I like old music," he replies, a ghost of a smile on the face that just turned towards the kitchen, "Would you like toast?"

"I'm not hungry yet," Yuri lies. His stomach grumbles in protest, "D'ya have your family here?"

"My family lives in Almaty."

"Oh. I see."

"Yuri," he fidgets across the table as if he's about to deliver some bad news, "I should get straight to the point."

"... Okay." Yuri gulps down the dryness. He thinks he's ready to hear it. Whatever it is.

"Yuri, will you – uh, will you like to live here?"

"– Huh?!"

"I mean like – okay, stop yelling – yeah, well, that's what I mean. I have a lot of space to share, and the room the police allotted you was frankly disgusting so..."

"I don't think so, Otabek."

Yuri watches his face drop. This is going to be difficult. "Why not?"

"I appreciate it, but I've already taken too many favours from you. I just _can't,_ okay. I know I'm sounding like Katsudon right now like what kind of a cursed day is this, but it's going to be too much. If I'm gonna say it my way, I'll say _back off._ "

It must be funny, because they chuckle at the same time. "It's not a favour," Otabek persists, and when Yuri's about to send his own arm flailing as a dramatic counter-argument, he catches it, pulls it to his face, and gives it a small peck, "You can pay for the room. I won't dare make you live here for free."

"...What did you just do?"

"Are you going to be friends with me or not?"

Yuri doesn't know how it happens – maybe it's the warmth of the sunrise, maybe their faces came too close – but the next thing he knows is that their lips touch and he lets himself drown in that embrace, he lets his fingers travel into Otabek's hair and feel the buzz of his undercut, he lets Otabek grab his waist and pull him closer. _Hell_ , he's never done it before but he knows exactly what it is.

(His Dedushka called it love.)

A tring of the doorbell and they break apart; Otabek is nervously staring at his shoes, and Yuri pulling his long hair back into the bun again, wiping the saliva off his face with his sleeve, a happy warmth tingling at the pit of his stomach.

"So," Yuri grins, "friends, huh?"

* * *

 **Hi guys, thank you for all the reviews! You can follow the story on ao3 in the same name under the pseud simplydrasticvoldy. I post the latest chapter a day earlier on that site. :D**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

* * *

"Drunk again, Anya?"

It must've been the wide, ear-to-ear grin on her face that provokes the question. She feels her heart flutter, but tries not to break the act; she puts the handbag down on the bench, and snakes up her arms around his shoulders. "It's your fault."

"Anya, I'm working," her police attendant boyfriend shrugs off with a laugh.

"Not right now," she flips the chair around and slips into his lap, legs on either side, and seals his complaint with a deep kiss. "No damn night shift can keep us apart. I have a condom in my bag. Is anyone going to hear us?"

"I don't think so. As long as I don't make you scream," he traces a finger along her skin, and his sleep-deprived eyes seem to light up at the ideas racing in his mind, "I love you so much, _moya lyubov._ "

"I love you too, Georgi. Let me just go and shut the door."

Anya lets off his lap and goes for the door while he shifts some of the papers together to make space. She has been waiting for this night for quite a while now, waiting for this night shift. The moonlight bouncing off the walls and the shadows of the bars of the ventilator makes the room resemble her prison, her uncomfortably melodramatic boyfriend her prison-keeper… and tonight she might finally be free.

"Did you work on the blood samples I sent you?"

"Yes, but I think they were contaminated because they didn't make a lot of sense."

"Why not?"

"Guessing the tests came out wrong. There was an unknown chromosomal pair... I don't know. Don't want to ruin the mood thinking about that right now. By the by, a police lab is hardly a place for genetic testing. I slipped them in... just for _you_."

"Ah," she pretends to sigh, "I'll tell my boss then there was a mistake. I'll take back what you've got though. Do you have 'em?"

"On the table over the red file on the left," he points absent-mindedly, "C'mon, my love, I've to get back to work again. Let's do it before my little general falls asleep?"

"Of course," she slips the pages into her handbag and pulls out the condom, holding the packet between her teeth.

"Not yet," he puts the condom aside, and she feels her breasts being touched, slowly massaging downwards to the button of her jeans. She senses hardness under her thigh, and sitting on his lap, she nuzzles herself closer to his torso, picking up the pace, frantically kissing him in the crease of his neck.

If she sucks on the skin hard enough, she'll get a hickey right there, under where the carotid artery passes – _just_ what she needs.

"So did you hear about the new cult they've formed?"

His brow furrows, more so because he doesn't like interruptions while getting turned on. Stupid man. "What cult?"

" _Do zla boga._ "

" _Do zla boga?_ Like a cult of Satanists?"

"My love," she whispers sensually into his ear, "who decides who's God and who's Satan?"

"I didn't know you're that religious."

"Not religion, my darling, but _science_ ," she bites on his lip and continues to mumble into his ear like a sweet lullaby, "Imagine a world without weakness. Imagine feeling that power at the tips of your fingers. And when the world's come down to a handful of powerful people, there's no struggling for food. There'd be no Good and Bad. There'd be no wars. Peace will come eventually."

"What are you even _talking_ about?"

"I'm talking about a world where I'm free. Not forced with mortgages. Not bound to that stupid dream of yours. And certainly not bound to the promise of our marriage. Open your eyes, Georgi, I'm no dream girl of yours."

" _Anya_ ," she watches his eyes widen, and his heart shatter. It's pitiful, honestly.

"Don't worry, love, you just helped us take the first step." Right now, it's a fun game; she can't decide whether to tell him everything from the start or twirl him around her little finger with the mysterious gushing. Neither will help with what she's about to do next, however. After that, all she needs to do is to assure the reports travel safely to _boss_ , and then destroy the evidence of those papers from the face of the earth.

It's almost as if he read her mind. He stiffens, pushing her hungry face away. "Anya," it's a stern, suspicious voice, "who gave you those blood samples? Whose blood is that?"

"Whose blood? The vigilantes, of course. They spill their precious blood so carelessly... If we're to be _like_ them, we ought to _know_ them. We kill the weaker one; keep the other as a lab rat. Won't be easy, but I'm all in for the drama. It's going to be so much fun, oh, you have no idea! Profiling samples anywhere else would've been such hoopla. The police are never going to search their own den, and word's never getting out. You've done your job _so_ well, darling."

Why does Georgi look so shocked? Is this the first time he's witnessed her psychotic smile that broadens up like a Cheshire cat, and the clattering of her teeth she can barely control? Oh, _maybe_ , yes. She has been putting up a lot of appearances since the past year. At least it was worth the pain.

It arrives down to a split-second – the man tries to shove her back and reaches out for the telephone - but Anya has always been faster, stronger, sharper – and the fact he hesitates to hurt the woman he used to love gives her an upper hand; she picks up a pen from behind him and stabs him in the neck, right through the hickey.

Bright red blood spurts out, sprays onto her face like a rupture in a garden pipe, and she grins in her victory - it's definitely hit the artery – five more minutes until he bleeds out. She twists the pen, her fist powering through the vein the tip of the pen must've stuck into, and he chokes and gurgles – _oh, poor him, poor him, poor Popovich with a pen plugged in the neck_ – it's a little funny.

Warm blood seeps into her shirt, rolls down her elbow, drips down the floor in a nasty _tap tap tap._ She gets off his lap and the body slumps to the floor like a rag doll. She draws out the bloody pen – his body gives out a deathly spasm – and decides to keep it as a souvenir.

The trophy of her freedom.

"What a shame, honey. This is the worst sex I've ever had. We never even made it till the condom."

* * *

 **You've Got a Friend in Me** by  jookester88

Word count: 3765

Rating: E (Explicit)

Category: M/M

Relationships: Eros/Wizard (Silver Shot)

Characters: Eros, Wizard (Silver Shot), Paparazzi, Eros's ass

Additional tags: _#smut , #porn with feelings, #oneshot, #accidental voyeurism, #obligatory kiss™under moonlight, #i am sure this is what they do in their freetime_, _#erizard feels_

Summary: _It's a wintry night, and a tiring day at crimefighting causes a rip in Eros's costume. When the icy touch of someone's fingers accidentally clamp on that exposed waist (and part of the ass), things get hotter. Or messier. Or both._

Status: Complete Chapters: 1/1 Reviews: 67 Favs: 178 Follows: 53 Hits: 987

 **Webbed Ice** by  erizardisotp

Word count: 18,657

Rating: E (Explicit)

Category: M/M/M

Characters: Eros, Wizard(Silver Shot), The Ultimate Spider-Man, Gwen Stacy, Green Goblin, FBI

Relationships: Eros/Wizard(Silver Shot)/Spider-Man, Spider-Man/Gwen Stacy (past)

Additional tags: _#fluff and smut_ , _#some blood and violence_ , _#spiderman is not married to mj here_ , _#eventual polyamory_ , _#or spidey dies_ , _#because erizard is real_ , _#like literally_ , _#obligatory kiss™under moonlight_ , _#smut_ , _#angst_

Summary: _The first time Eros meets the tall, mysterious, hooded figure who calls himself "The Wizard" he is instantly smitten. However, what would he do when he finds out everyone's Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man has his eyes set on the Wizard too? Welcome to the web of jealousy, love... and ice._

Status: In Progress Chapters: 3/15 Reviews: 89 Favs: 55 Follows: 132 Hits: 2256

 **The Apologist** by theboredcynic

Word count: 9407

Rating: T (Teen and Up)

Category: M/M

Characters: Eros, Wizard(Silver Shot), George Clooney, Hollywood

Relationships: Eros/Wizard(Silver Shot)

Additional tags: _#fluff and crack_ , _#plot basically revolves around George Clooney apologising for Batman and Robin_ , _#Clooney began vigilantism as an apology_ , _#Joel Schumacher is the villain yes_ , _#Silver Shot meets Elsa_ , _#why did I write this_ , _#but then real life is crack fiction_ , _#we have actual masked superheroes now_ , _#and with actual powers so kill me_ , _#George Clooney has stamina_

Summary: _Everyone wants to know a little bit more about Eros. But when Eros finally opens his head gear, is it the face Silver Shot expects?_

 _'So you are George Clooney?_ ' _Silver Shot is pleasantly surprised._

 _'Right now I'm only an apologist,' Eros replies._

Status: Complete Chapters: 1/1 Reviews: 257 Favs: 786 Follows: 350 Hits: 7035

Yuuri cringes at what is possibly the darkest part of the internet he has accidentally stumbled upon, and flings the page shut before someone catches him in the act. The page beneath pops up – _ugh_ , he groans – and is by no means better.

 ** _Trending_**

 ** _Buzzfeed Quiz: Answer Five Random Questions and We'll tell you Which Vigilante You Are_**

 _Casey Turner_

 _Detroit_

 _Community Contributer_

 _Are you the dark, mysterious Eros or the icy charmer Wizard? A true test for the tiny superhero that lives within you._

 _Choose your favorite breakfast combination._

...

 _View comments (187)_

 ** _Hale Johnson_**

 _Congratulations, you are Eros! Sexy, mysterious, you hate people and yet people want to know more about you. You are secretly proud about being the vigilante version of Mr. Darcy, and probably own a large mansion! Go, you._

 ** _67_** likes

 ** _Vera Nuengen_**

 _Congratulations, you are the Wizard! You are charming, the life of a party, and despise anything boring and plain... ( Expand)_

 ** _Related Stories_**

 **'** ** _The vigilantes could be CIA in disguise' – interview with the Commissioner in Chief_**

 ** _This might be the clearest picture of Eros vigilante captured yet – click to see_**

"Yuuri, what's up with you?"

It's Phichit, who's just entered the flat with a big bag of bagels. He slams the laptop shut on instinct. "...Nothing?"

"You've been searching porn on _my_ laptop?" He might be partly-correct, given the hoard of dirty fanfiction Yuuri just encountered.

"No," Yuuri scrambles for words, "It was work stuff. My laptop broke." He isn't lying; he was looking up articles on particle magnetism until he got distracted. And his laptop did break – in _two._ His bag went plunging to the ground from the top of a mini-skyscraper last night; the worst part is, he didn't need the laptop for any purpose in particular, he'd just forgotten to take it out of his bag before he swung out of his room window.

"Okay," Phichit seems genuinely unbothered about having porn in his search history, instead, he walks across the space and pulls open the fridge for the big jar of jam, shoves a spoon in it and offers a bagel to his flustered friend, "the question is, why are you lazing around on such a bright sunny day?"

"I was just..." finishing around the usual quota of sleep and trying not to move too much with a generic bruise on his back.

"You haven't seen my intern lab yet, have you? I _can't_ believe you haven't seen it yet."

Yuuri realises where this is going. He goes for a preemptive attack; sometimes puppy-eyed honorifics are the armaments to make best friends relent. "Phichit- _kun_ -"

"No questions, Yuuri, we're going there _rrright_ now," Phichit tosses him his jacket and Yuuri crankily acknowledges how desensitized he is to Yuuri's excuses; in any case, jumping on his toes and ever ready to get out of the four walls of their cramped apartment, Phichit has this uncanny resemblance with the Energizer Bunny that Yuuri can't help but notice and smile at, "Now, c'mon!"

* * *

"Name?"

The receptionist slides ahead a register at Yuuri without even looking up from the monitor, a presentable smile somehow etched between the stress lines of her obvious work pressure.

"I'm staff and he's my friend," Phichit says, slinging his arm around Yuuri's shoulder (Yuuri shuffles in discomfort, thanks to the bruise), " _Also_ , he's Celestino's favourite student –"

"Phichit, _no_!" Yuuri whispers fiercely, bright pink speckled across his cheeks wondering why Phichit's trying to brag his way out of a standard procedure.

"What, it's not like I'm lying," he reasons innocuously, and upon finding the receptionist's unimpressed stare, he heaves out a giant sigh, "Ugh, okay. He still needs to sign? Okay, just get it over with."

In the elevator ride to the thirteenth floor – _Biomechanics_ , Phichit keeps them occupied mimicking a lab mate who accidentally set his crotch on fire during an experiment. Yuuri laughs, but it makes him doubt Celestino's considerations about safety – a lab adjoining a research museum in the middle of a crowded city spot is a strange choice in the first place, and maybe a little typical of the bushy-haired, sometimes overzealous professor.

"It's alright," Phichit assures him, "Ciao Ciao's got his private lab on the top floor. You know, for the riskier ones. It's fireproofed, the radiation tunnel is connected with the laundry tunnel and it lets out at a pretty barren place. So no court cases, hopefully." He hops out of the elevator happily as soon as they reach his department, dragging a hesitant Yuuri by his arm, "I _cannot_ believe you gave up the chance to work here, Yuuri! Look at all this equipment; I think I get a mini-boner every time I see them!"

As beautiful as all the shiny new equipment is, Yuuri has some other concerns. "I hope he doesn't see me here," he mumbles to himself, trying to walk behind Phichit's frame as subtly as possible.

"Are you scared of Ciao Ciao? Out of all people?"

"Don't laugh," Yuuri gives him the sideways glare, and it must've looked funny because Phichit needs to shove his knuckles into his face to stop himself from snorting.

Yuuri has his reasons. In the last week, he's bumped into Celestino so many times he almost felt like Celestino was stalking him. Although he has apologised in every roundabout manner Celestino doesn't back down and finds a way to pull up his little invitation again and again. It's a vicious cycle and Yuuri is frankly terrified to even steer close to it.

"I swear if you ask him he'll take you to his private lab –"

Yuuri's phone beeps all of a sudden. The notification flashes Victor's name; he swipes up to check it.

 _From: Victor_

 ** _Wanna watch a movie? :D_**

 ** _Some 60s art film called Andrei Rublev, gotta watch it for a test. __**

 ** _We can have pizza! :P_**

 _13:44_

Before he can read through, another text arrives.

 _From: Victor_

 ** _6 o' clock_ ****_?_**

 _13:45_

Thumb casually resting upon the keypad, he's on his way to type a reply when the phone beeps the third time.

 _From: Victor_

 ** _Shoot, I still have that oscillation essay pending. Maybe not today?_ ****_Tomorrow_ ****_? Morning? I have a free track. You free?_**

 _13:50_

"Tell him I'm gonna be there too," Phichit peeks from behind, his tone more or less a mix of I'm-salty-at-how-a-stupid-text-just-swayed-your-attention-right-now and friendly teasing, "I've been waiting to watch that one since... the last seventy years."

"Phichit, you're making that face."

"What face?"

Smug. Gleeful. That Victor-Nikiforov-and-Katsuki-Yuuri-are-secretly-dating-and-I-know-it face. "You _know_ which face I'm talking about."

"This... is how my face looks when I laugh at my own joke."

" _Please_ , Phichit," Yuuri looks like the moody, done-with-life antithesis to his excited, ball-of-sunshine friend, "For the seven hundredth time, what you think is between Victor and me is not how it actually is."

In the past month, Phichit has made many unsuccessful and honestly embarrassing attempts at setting Yuuri and Victor up, the most infamous being the one where Phichit asked everyone to meet for lunch at West Riverfront and then not only bailed out of it, but told others to do the same (Yuuri figured through the subtext of Yura's cursing later). Yuuri didn't mind the private day out (and he hopes Victor didn't either), but it wasn't too subtle, was it?

"I know," he says.

"You mumbled something." Yuuri pries with that apparently silly sideways stare again.

"Oh, yes, I mumbled how legitimately dense you are despite being a genius, Yuuri. Did you even _tell_ him how you feel about him?"

Yuuri's insides perform a nasty flip. He feels his voice falling, and before he loses it he tries to buckle up, "I don't feel anything like that –"

"Yuuri, you can't lie to me, okay," Phichit folds his arms – he throws an abrupt reminder of Yuuri's ballet teacher Minako chastising him – with that pose, "You _think_ you can, but, breaking news, you _can't._ How can you just _assume_ what Victor feels without telling him? Oh, okay, he's told you he likes someone else - who even is this _someone_? He spends half the day with you – whoever this... this _someone_ is, why doesn't that someone have a problem with that? Why don't we even know his name? I'm telling you, this 'someone' doesn't exist."

 _Here we go again._

"You're kidding, right?" Yuuri doesn't want to sound rude but somewhere it struck on a vein of annoyance and his words come out snappy, "It's Victor. Not some desperate fuck that needs to pretend he has a love life just to look cool. And also, Victor told me the person rejected him. Why'd he say that if he'd been making stuff up from the beginning?"

Yuuri doesn't like Phichit trying to solve some non-existent love triangle solely through his knowledge of K-dramas and with no hands-on experience whatsoever. _Hell_ , his theory feels more and more outrageous with every passing second of its conception.

Because Yuuri knows. He knows Victor better than all of them combined, and he's seen the sincerity of Victor's heartbroken eyes. It's reflected his own. It was a personal, tender moment between them which he can never articulate in words, or put up as a defence, but that doesn't make it any less valid.

"Maybe to give you an opening to approach him."

"You are deluded."

"I'm not!" Phichit persists, "Look, yes, I know, he can get _anyone_ he wants. But he probably doesn't want to get anyone. He wants to get _you_. He doesn't have any close friends out here whom he can fake-date and trust with that secret, and he didn't want to break someone's heart trying to get you because he isn't selfish. So he just tried to get you jealous and now he's hinting at you to ask him out. It all adds up!"

With Celestino potentially hovering nearby and Phichit overreaching all boundaries of logical reasoning, Yuuri thinks it's time for him to leave the castle. "Nothing adds up and you are crazy."

"Listen to me, Yuuri," Phichit jogs after him, almost knocking over an expensive microscope and earning a scoff from a passing senior, "Just tell him. Tell him how you feel. I know you're scared that it'll get awkward but Victor isn't that sort of a person. And if you _do_ lose him because you told him you're in love with him, then he doesn't deserve you."

Yuuri opens his mouth to argue but the phone unceremoniously interrupts again.

 _From: Victor_

 ** _Yuuuuri you are seen-zoning me! T_T_**

 ** _Jk reply when you have time ;)_**

 _14:05_

He stares at the screen – stares at the contact name – as if he's trying to dig a hole in it. There's this... childish, _inane_ part of him that screams in Phichit's approval – that throws him in this cascade of hopeful _what-ifs._ What if Phichit's right? (Phichit's not.) What if Victor sees him, or at least, has seen him in a different light? (Victor hasn't.) What if he ruins his friendship with Victor with this emotionally constipated attitude anyway? (He hopefully won't.) What if Victor considers his confession, if he makes one, now that Victor's been rejected? (No reason Victor should.) With that ogre of a killer loose in the city, what if Yuuri dies one night and Victor never gets to know how Yuuri feels about him?

(... _Okay,_ this one has some chance of happening.)

"Sh-should I do it then?"

"Yes!" The side of Yuuri's head is throbbing so hard in his ears that it cancels out most of Phichit's happy yelling, "Oh my god, yes. Yes, Yuuri, you should've done it sooner..."

"I can't believe I'm actually considering this," he feels light-headed, his phone slipping through his sweaty grip, his super-instincts numbed out, "I'll do it then. I'll tell him tomorrow. Prepare to be shot down."

" _Yay_!"

 _To: Victor_

 ** _I'll be there. :)_**

 _14:35_ _Delivered_

* * *

Yuri's heart has been in trouble for like a day now. It's weirdly paces up and slows down, and certain things seem to trigger the acceleration, like, that silly kiss in the morning last day, or right now, as he shifts the door to peek through, carrying a tray full of piroshkies he has cooked as a _thank you_ , and watches Otabek busy over the phone.

When Otabek catches a glimpse of him, they nod in acknowledgement, and Yuri rests the tray over the table and pulls his hood up. No one, and not even him, must see him blushing.

"I was just talking to your lawyer," Otabek tells him, settling onto the couch, "JJ's signed a letter that says you've helped us bust a major case. If everything goes well there should be one court hearing at most, and you should walk free. Nothing to worry about."

"I guess," Yuri mumbles lowly, trying hard not to stray into the worst array of possibilities, "thank you." And with that he tosses him a piroshki; Otabek manages to catch, but the next moment he's clownishly juggling it in his hands, yelling, "Hot! _Hot_!"

"Yes, just keep doing that, it should cool down," Yuri grants him an evil grin, as he bends down to check the DVD rack below the TV, " _The Fast and the Furious_ one two three four five six... _Fast and the Furious_ complete collection... _2_ _Fast_ _2 Furio_ \- is there anything that isn't fast and furious?"

"Mmmph?" is the response, before Otabek swallows down the mouthful of food and replies, " _Finding Nemo._ "

"No, nothing too colourful, ugh," Yuri pulls out a DVD at random, "Last week Victor chose all the movies. Bright and happy... _tsk,_ that dumbass, I swear he half-blinded me."

"They're nice. You like them?"

"Oh, please," Yuri snaps defensively, "that geezer and that pork cutlet bowl are stupid as fuck are what they are, are what they are. I _hate_ them."

"I was talking about the piroshkies."

He senses heat gushing around his neck, and when he turns he finds Otabek holding the whole tray and staring at it with utmost curiosity; it would've been glaringly obvious what Otabek had remarked about if he'd been looking this way, _damn_ , "Oh."

"I've had piroshkies before, but they never tasted quite like this, you know."

"That's because the filling's katsudon. Katsudon – I mean, Katsuki taught me."

"Hmm," Otabek goes back to eating without further comment. Yuri doesn't have any more detail to fill in either.

The impulsive kiss yesterday has spurred a phase of awkwardness that has certainly been taking its time to recede, thanks to nobody.

It's not as if Otabek hasn't been trying hard; he isn't a talker, but has such fondness in his somewhat inexpressive eyes when Yuri gets carried away cursing and complaining and telling him stories. Given Otabek is a police officer (in-training, he confides last afternoon) tracking hardcore criminals and going _vroooooom_ on that motorbike whenever he pleases, he must've more interesting things to do than hear Yuri talk all day about his mundane domestic shenanigans.

And when everything else fails, they quiet down and sit on the couch at either ends, pretending to be busy over their phones. Or they talk about cats. Otabek likes cats too.

Yuri still thinks he loves him. It's just that... it's been far too long, and his guard has grown so hard and rocky that it's difficult to put it down and be vulnerable again. He wants to bare his heart out and tell him about himself; deep down Yuri knows he's using the unfamiliarity of the place as an excuse to postpone it. It's been far too long that he's looked back, back at when he lived in St. Petersburg with his Dedushka... and now, he's terrified to.

(He can only hope Otabek will wait until he's ready.)

"Yuri, d'you know how to operate a gun?" It comes out of nowhere.

"Planning to send me back to prison as soon as I walk free?" Yuri teases him in good humour.

"Not at all," he answers seriously, much to Yuri's amusement, "if you don't. I can teach you sometime. It's good to have it on your sleeve as self defence. Times aren't too good –" it seems he was drifting towards something more – meaningful, _romantic_ , dare he say? – when the damn annoyance of a phone rings, and he picks up what looks like a duty call.

Two minutes in and he's ready with his safety helmet and jacket and holster and ID. "I gotta go. JJ's hauled off alone tailing the Wanted Man. There's a fire and the stupid bastard's calling for backup now."

"Yeah, I understand," Yuri shrugs off, "be careful – don't get your head blown off, or whatever, I guess."

There's a grim nod and _poof,_ he's gone.

(This is Yuri's life now.)

He wonders if the incident's on the news – leaps out and pushes the remote control, surfs few channels and – _yes_ , there it is. There's a hell lot of smoke, and the camera is shaky, pointing at the dozen blazing floors of GM Renaissance Center. The place seems to be in chaos; the reporter has to legitimately scream her lungs out over the noise of the incoming fire trucks and panicky people.

'– _and we're getting you a live report from GM Renaissance Center. No one knows what caused the fire, but we've just received some sources that believe the fire might've caused by a fistfight between the police and a criminal who's simply called the Wanted Man now being on the high alert lists for more than a month. Anyone sighting the man must call on the number our screen below – now moving on with the situation...'_

A number in yellow flashes up, along with a sketch of a man who frankly looks like the newest addition to the Addams family, when the camera ignores the firetrucks and turns right at a shadow-like blur and a flare of white, and Yuri smiles.

 _'– John, we have the vigilantes here, the latest report is that the vigilantes are here! We can see them right there, and now they've crossed the yellow tape and are climbing up. It seems they'll get the trapped citizens out faster than any of the firetrucks – back to the newsroom with John with the latest scoop on the vigilantes..."_

Yuri lets his body weight sink into the couch, lets the exhaustion set in. It's a breather: now that the vigilantes are there, at least he can assure Otabek will return as whole by the night.

In a crude way the vigilantes are everything Yuri wants to be but cannot be – they catch criminals but don't associate with the police, they rebel, break laws, and they're unbelievably _chill_ about it. (He does, however, realise where the thin line is – if one of them goes rogue, all hell might break loose.)

No, this is _fucking_ ridiculous. He wants to be some superpowered knight to Otabek's police-princess? Fuck those superhero rejects. Fuck this _love_ shit. Fuck everything.

Ugh.

'– _This is John Haddington from Michigan Times News, and our site reporter Elise has managed to have a word with the vigilante popularly called Silver Shot. He has informed the buildings have been evacuated, and there's been no progress over the status of the Wanted Man who has gone missing again. Here we can see the raw footage of Silver Shot taking the stairs, followed by the police's own search party who say they can't take the vigilante's words in full surety. We are going to take a short break..._ '

It takes all of Yuri's strength and sanity to pick up his phone and send a text.

 _To: Dumb Cop_

 ** _Everything's okay I guess?_**

 _22:35_ _Delivered_

He sighs and waits.

This is his life now.

* * *

When Victor hits upon the final curb of the staircase to the wide open roof, he spots two silhouettes right by the glowing-red Pepsi billboard.

The situation, for one, isn't exactly what he expects.

It sends an odd chill up his spine because it seems like Eros is uninterested in a fight; more like, he's already lost the battle. His knees are slightly wobbly – he's nervous, or upset, or _both_.

(At this point, Victor has spent way too much time with him to know that once you get past that impenetrable shield that his mask is, he's actually an open book underneath.) Right now, that knowledge is unnerving.

Eros's gait is loose and startled; he's not alert, he's thinking – maybe he's thinking a little too much – he's _collapsing_ in his mind.

The problem is, the person before him is a police officer – Victor remembers him, this one usually does all the major press conferences and hasn't ever failed to address his dislike towards both the vigilantes, all while holding a special kind of grudge against Eros, which Victor always assumed was something akin to _exasperation_ and nothing more – pointing a gun at him. The officer's hands are shaking, like a trainee holding a gun for the first time, but the eyes are unflinching, fixed at his target.

(Another problem, a major one, is that Eros needs a certain range of distance to dodge a bullet. And it's scaring Victor to think the distance is closing in with each passing second and Eros is making no attempt to move.)

It's a terrible impasse and any intrusion, any movement can stir a raw nerve and someone can get hurt. Victor stays behind the door for now; he's sceptical about what Eros might be planning being at total mercy of the officer, but Victor's going to allow him talk the policeman out of this madness.

And it seems the vigilante has been trying for a while. "– like I said, _please_ put the gun down - "

"Hurt me if I don't, then," the officer snarls, "go on. Kill me. Maybe that'll end this fucking _farce._ "

"– Look, Officer... Leroy, I request you again –"

"You wanted to rid the city of criminals, didn't you? You and that... that ice-riding clown mate of yours – but guess _what,_ you're a fucking lawbreaker too. Surrender yourself."

"... I am sorry if I've caused you or your team any inconvenience. It certainly wasn't my motive," Eros is unexpectedly polite, and Victor is sure these antics are only making the officer grit his teeth and seethe some more.

"Inconvenience?" the officer laughs, it's less of a laugh and more like a wail – it's desperate, animalistic, and Victor doesn't like where this is heading. The officer's hands are shaking so hard that he might accidentally pull the trigger and won't even notice; his eyes are pooled with angry tears. "You've caused me much more. You took away _hope_ from me. You save people, don't you, _don't_ you? Then why didn't you save _me_!"

"I... am sorry."

"You are so _fucking_ not!" he screams, and it rips through the dry air like a slash of a knife, "They blew up my house... they blew it up – as a _joke_! Everything we held dear, everything we'd planned for our future – it was gone. My fiancée can't walk anymore. She's paralysed from waist down. She doesn't smile anymore. She asked me yesterday if things would've been better if she'd _died_ in the blast. We were supposed to get married this month. Why didn't you save her? You let that happen because gimmicks are fun for – for _maniacs_ like you."

"You're one of them," the officer's voice takes a low, the muzzle of his loaded gun leering dangerously close to Eros's chest, "and that is why you let that happen. That's why you wear that stupid mask. I _know_ it."

 _That's it._ Victor jumps out and strikes the officer unconscious from behind. As the man thuds to the ground, gun bouncing off his reach and the metal clanking through the silence, Victor almost expects a good amount of chastising from his partner for butting in, but Eros says nothing. Almost as if he has too much to process – or can't process _anything_ at all.

The wind is humid and sticky, and yet it manages to ease away the reeking stench of the burning concrete. From the top of the building, they can see the small white dot that is the officer's car, still waiting at the lobby. The crowd has thinned; a few firetrucks are lined afar.

Victor nudges that stiff, spandex-clad elbow. "He'll wake up in a while. Let's get out of here."

For the first time, Eros complies without a word.

* * *

Yuuri can't breathe.

He feels as if his ribs are closing in, clenching onto his heart and lungs. Tears are stinging his eyes. And he can't breathe. He just can't breathe.

"He's right. I failed."

" _No_ ," it's a deeper voice, a very familiar voice but Yuuri can't concentrate; his head's buzzing all too loudly. He realises that it comes from his partner, who has been holding him for a while now. As touch-repelling as Yuuri is, he lets him hold. He begins to lean on that slender shoulder, slowly whizzing out his despair in short ragged breaths.

"As cold as it sounds," his partner continues, in that familiar but uncharacteristic voice, "you _can't_ be everywhere at the same time. You _can't_ save everyone under the sun. You can feel guilty all you want but it's a bitter truth you'll have to accept."

He's right, and wrong. Yuuri wanted to help, true. But since he has imposed that moral obligation upon himself, every life lost is like blood on his hands. Every innocent suffering is _his_ fault.

"You aren't invincible, or unbreakable, Eros. And what, you were going to accept a bullet from that raging policeman as some sort of punishment for something you couldn't even have prevented? I expected so much better from you."

 _'You took away hope from me.'_ The officer's words constrict his throat, as if choking him with a bike chain. Yuuri is weak against the irrational demons in his head. Perhaps he needs somebody blunt and harsh to set him straight. Perhaps he needs to pull off his mask and inhale a deep breath of fresh air, instead of these short untrusting gasps.

He's been fighting alone for so long. Perhaps he needs to lean.

"I was seven when I first knew I had powers," his helmet is nudging into the other man's chest, his mouth on the distorter muffling half of the words, but he didn't care; they had decided to be partners on the grounds of one golden rule: _no personal detail_ , ever. And here he is, being the first to break it.

"I was excited because I knew I just _had_ to have them," Yuuri tells him, "my sister can read minds. She says it's not as amazing as it sounds. Everything gets too noisy at once. There's no moment of peace."

Yuuri lets out a small chuckle and so does he.

"I had so much fun when I got them, jumping from house to house. I used to act like a ninja," Yuuri sighs at his memories, they feel as distant as they are – the cold moon of Hasetsu is nothing like these damp city lights, "Until one day, I watched a boy get beaten up and I... and I did nothing. I just freaked out – I thought if I show them my powers the word will spread. It was a small town; people will harass my family but more importantly, they'll disturb _my_ peace. That's all I thought about. Myself. The next day my dog was run over. In front of me. I tried to save him. So I ran as fast as the wind could take me – through a crowded street – without thinking about consequences. I acted because this time it affected _me_.

You think I'm some kind of hero, but I'm not. I'm just a scared little asshole. I lost my friend that day because I didn't save the boy, I _know_ it. Every consequence in this world is a butterfly effect. The world works on conservation of momentum. Every time I fail to save somebody, life will take someone dear to me away just to compensate for it. I know it."

It comes out all wrong. Yuuri intended to tell him some kind of heroic intention in what he does; instead he started rambling, and ended up sounding like a selfish idiot.

"So if you had no one to care about will you stop saving people?"

"... No." Small-voiced, against his will, contradicting his story. But the word spills out of his mouth before he can stop it.

"Exactly. Now, listen to me, Eros. You might have convinced yourself to think lowly about you, but look, it's not gonna work on me. Do you know when you first impressed me? It wasn't those acrobatics. It was when you had to choose between chasing a thief and helping a hurt woman. You chose to _help._ And I know you weren't thinking about consequences. You chose because you're a good person and you had a moral call of duty. And that's all there is to it. Pity you broke our rule though, brownie points to me."

Yuuri feels tears in his eyes again, but this time they don't prick, they dribble down easing the weight on his chest. Suddenly Yuuri feels like he hasn't ever appreciated his partner enough, never appreciated how much he brightens up the night like a silver lining of _hope_ against Yuuri's bulbous raging darkness. He wraps his arms around him, feels his cool chin at the crease of his neck and it's almost as if they fit like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Also, Ice Guy is one _smooth_ talker.

"Well, in my defense, I never _really_ gave any personal detail," he smiles and his voice cracks, making him sound somewhere between amused and sad.

"Are you crying?" Ice Guy never lets a single moment pass, _sigh_ , "Jesus Christ, Eros is a softie. Fangirls are about to die. But hey, you _did_ break the rule. I now know you have a sister. Is she married?"

"I'm not gonna tell you."

"So, she's married –"

"She's not married –"

"– Ah, so she's not married. Another detail."

"Fuck, I just got played," Yuuri breaks apart from the hug at the realisation, arms on his hips. "This is so _not_ fair. I deserve something back for being this daft. Tell me something about yourself."

"Ordering me again, vigilante?"

" _Please,_ tell me something about yourself, sir?"

"A personal detail, huh?" He has a wistful finger on his lip, and before Yuuri can brace himself, _wait, what no, stop –_ the guy pushes his hood back and rips off his mask and –

"My name is Victor Nikiforov."

* * *

 **Well... Wasn't that something. Please review!**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

* * *

 _"The fight-or-flight response (also called hyperarousal, or the acute stress response) is a physiological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived harmful event, attack, or threat to survival. It was first described by Walter Bradford Cannon; This response is recognized as the first stage of the general adaptation syndrome that regulates stress responses among vertebrates and other organisms."_

* * *

At this point Yuuri won't be surprised if his heart manages to crack through his rib cage and pop out of his mouth.

He thinks the last semblance of a sound he caught was perhaps a hurt gasp, after he looked blankly at those familiar blue eyes and realised this confession was _not_ a joke and this situation was not a drill. Before his mind lost its grasps on logic and he turned his back at the guy and started to run.

It was Victor.

It was Victor all along.

It was Victor, having no idea that he, _Yuuri_ , was behind the other mask.

What even are the odds.

It begins to drizzle, and Yuuri seeks respite on a ledge, falling against the dilapidated wall of an abandoned building (probably; he has no idea which part of the city he's in thanks to everything that's happened tonight), heaving a sigh at the fierce patter of the droplets against his helmet mask.

It was so obvious. The voice aside, that is (which managed to sound different but regained the same tonal quality, Victor is _indeed_ Batman), his height, his built, the blue flare of his eyes, his jawline – _hell,_ he had half his face exposed and Yuuri couldn't recognise him. All those well-tailored jackets, all that good-natured free-spiritedness. Those self-sacrificing impulses. The passive-aggressive lack of cooperation when angry. Yuuri must be as blind as Phichit says.

Putting up appearances for others, constantly trying to meet the likes of the person _he_ thinks Eros would like to fall in love with and then wondering why Eros hasn't, making sure he pleases everyone in the face of the earth – all those things Yuuri had asked Victor _not_ to do anymore. It seems Victor has simply set up an incognito user account to not let his old habits go. Sigh. It started to wane after Eros's straightforward rejection, but still. How could Yuuri _not_ see.

It was so obvious.

He wants to laugh, maybe because he's finally losing his mind, or maybe because it indeed is a little funny; when his breathing calms down, it sinks in: all this time, all this _fucking_ time, it turns out Victor was chasing after him. He's rejected Victor all while pining for him – that _someone_ who Victor never mentions, that _someone_ he is heartbroken over, that _someone_ whose existence Phichit ritually questions four times a day – that _someone_ is him.

Victor is in love with his mysterious, super-agile, _noble_ alter-ego.

For some reason that doesn't feel very nice.

And to think Yuuri was about to tell him tomorrow. Yuuri, the quiet, shy, wallflower friend would've confessed, and Victor would've put him down in favour of Eros, Victor's night-time partner at crimefighting. He's never thought the universe has a sense of humour this strange that it made Yuuri sit as a giant road blockade in his own path to love.

He's fairly certain that Victor has begun to fall out of love with Eros as well. It's only so much you can do when your partner has a royal panic attack before an angry gun-wielding policeman and runs off to nowhere when you reveal your identity. Victor is awfully nice – and _stupid_ – to trust someone he barely knows with his secret, and now that Yuuri has left without a word, he's probably still sitting on that rooftop putting two and two together – and rightfully regretting it.

So... should he tell Victor too? His heart sinks, but then again, mask or not it's still Yuuri – isn't it? Does anything _really_ change, or is he simply overcomplicating in his head as usual –

 _Bang_!

The noise of – _what was that, a gun? –_ shakes the very soul out of him. He peeks ahead; as the road joins into the highway, the causer stands there – right under the streetlight by the line of cars.

The _Wanted_ man.

"Not now, you son of a dingbat," Yuuri's head is way too occupied to deal with this right now, even as he grumbles under his breath, his senses perking up, smelling trouble. The last noise was caused by a very uncoordinated throw of a _car_ that has now mangled into a lump and lodged itself into the debris of the footpath. There's no one else within his range of vision, so it's safe to believe it was meant for Yuuri.

He remembers Ice Guy's – Victor's – warning: _never engage in a close-range brawl with that man_. Yuuri'd have escaped but that will just send this _Bigfoot_ rampaging into some residential zone. Where are the police when one needs them?

Another car through the air. Yuuri scuttles out of the way – slips into the shadow of the narrow alleyway, waiting to sneak up from the back. Here's his plan: he's going to disappoint Victor in every possible way tonight – he's going to address the elephant in the room with a close-ranged brawl – he'll climb up on the man's back and attack his pressure points – a simple kyusho-jitsu trick should be enough to knock the man out, tie him up and drop him off at the police station.

"You know if these cars don't have insurance," he leaps out in open and _bam_ , neatly climbs up to the man's shoulders in the next fraction of a second – he goes for the suprascapular nerves before the man can grab his knee, "you're in massive tr..." _what?_ He strikes the right spots... even keeps the relative strength in mind and hits him as fast as he can, then... _why didn't it work?_ Themanbarely spasms, let alone drop unconscious.

(And now this little error is going to cost him heavy – why doesn't he listen to Victor when he needs to – why didn't Yuuri keep a backup trick in m- )

The man grabs him by the leg and slams him down into the concrete. White-hot pain in the back of his head renders him blind for a moment – he hears the brickbats rain and he's sure he just felt his ribs crack – but if he's to survive, he needs to get the man's death grip off his ankle. If the man slams him into the road like a rag doll again, he might _actually_ –

Yuuri uses his palms – springs himself up with whatever strength he has and twists midair; it's followed by a sickening _crunch_ and Yuuri knows if nothing else, he has at least succeeded in breaking the man's right hand. His leg now freed, Yuuri hurtles into the distance, his fingers scampering for the transceiver on the mask – _no, no no,_ he needs to call Victor, this isn't the time for the damn thing to fall out of his helmet – where is the _fucking_ transceiver?

There it is, squashed like a grape at the man's feet.

This is bad.

When this isn't bad enough, he's pelted at with a school bus – he stumbles as soon as he realises the grip has fractured his ankle, and misjudges the projectile of the object as it crash-lands – taking him down with it. He's stuck now – _so that was the man's plan all along_ – his fractured foot trapped under the weight of the frame, jolting in pain with every attempt to wiggle it out. There's a heap of debris on his chest and blood in his mouth; the rusty displeasure of his inevitable death if no miracle occurs soon.

– _bang bang bang –_

What's that? Are those really gunshots this time? Yuuri's head is way too fuzzy – he thinks he just heard a screech of tyres as well – it might as well be a big darned hallucination before the man pulls over the wreckage and snuffs the life out of him. He tries to crawl – his ribs and head and ankle be _damned_ – the extremities of his fingers reaching out... for something, _anything._ His vision doubles – he can't afford to pass out right now – he's _not_ giving up, he's got friends to protect, he's got a family to return to, he's got to tell Victor tomorrow... something important...

His fingers trace a sudden pattern under them; he strains his watery eyes to check: it's – _it's God's saving grace –_ it's a lid of a manhole at the edge of the pavement. He pulls it up and slides into the slimy tunnel of darkness, never minding how his broken, numbed body just fell into the knee-length sewage water with a disgusting _splotch_.

Filth clogs into the air vents of his mask as he struggles to get the helmet off, wheezing for air. He eventually does, and throws it aside in the stream of water, stink exploding in his nostrils, his cheek thudding onto the cool, mossy curve of the tunnel. He's too tired... only if he hadn't run from Victor in the first place... Victor...

 _Worst night ever._

* * *

"Good nap?"

Otabek is angry. JJ blinks, still comprehending the reality of his situation, arms flailing madly for support as he pushes himself to his feet. "They knocked me out. They knocked the gun out of my hand. Where's my gun?"

"Shut up, JJ."

"Don't take that tone with me, junior."

"I might as well will, because as soon as the commissioner hears about this he's going to fire your ass, and you'll have to go look for a new job. And I won't be the _junior_ anymore."

JJ renders him a nasty glare, eventually finds his gun a few metres apart and puts it back in the holster. Otabek is angry, not only because he's been struggling and awkward with Yuri for a day now and the only moment of raw conversation after an age of silence got disrupted for no reason, but because JJ's overconfident ass just sent a dangerous man rallying inside a hotel and set it on fire. JJ used to be a man of strategy, if nothing else, and suddenly it's as if he's been turned into a novice _whump_ in dire need of self-reflection.

"Can you drive?" Otabek double-checks with him after they walk out of the elevator.

"I sure can. I didn't drink."

"Okay."

He guesses they call it a day then. Some businesses went kaput, some people got hurt, some hundreds of dollars worth of property was destructed, and the Wanted man is still on loose, thanks to the one man army of the DEA, Detroit. Otabek trots down the parking lot, then checks his watch: 11:30 p.m. And he still has some paperwork to do with the Fire Department. Yuri will be asleep by the time he returns home.

"Altin, wait."

He turns. JJ is standing right over where he last saw him, hasn't moved a foot towards his car. "Yes?"

"I am sorry."

 _Sorry? Did he just say sorry?_ Did the infamously high-nosed Officer Jean Jacques Leroy say sorry? This is some first-page news. Otabek retreats and begins to look for his motorbike again. "Save your apologies. They're not going to change anything."

"I do mean it. I got sidetracked. Lost my mind in the middle when I saw the guy in black. I just lost it."

"Look, Officer, I know you're going through a lot, but try not to do it again."

"Don't tell anyone I apologised to a junior. They'll all hump my back for no reason."

 _Partner_ is the magic word, but okay. "You have my word."

The quiet of the hollow parking lot is ripped with the sound of the static of JJ's blaring police-phone speaker before Otabek can start his motorbike. " _Officer, Officer, can you hear me? It's Wilson. There's disturbance over Midtown. The Wanted man and one of the vigilantes are engaged in combat destroying public property. Over."_

And just like that JJ receives exactly what he wanted: a second chance to cover up his monumental screw-up. "Guess it isn't over yet," with that JJ jumps into his car, an unmistakable ghost of a smirk that the idea of thrill can bring to his face despite the circumstance, "Have enough cartridges, Altin?"

Otabek, on the other hand, prefers peace with a hint of domesticity. He gruffly starts his own motorbike. The least they can do right now is catching that diabolical monster of a man, and end this dragged out mess of an episode.

"A few."

They spot the Wanted man as soon as they drive into the alerted zone.

– _bang bang bang –_

" _Freeze_!" JJ screams, but doesn't wait for the man's reaction; as unethical as it is, it's sort of a good call. JJ shoots without warning, as some of his aims hit the mangled frame of a bus right by the man and send the bullets ricocheting in all directions. The man is still afar, and while they're rapidly drawing close – it all happens in a blur – even so, they can put their money on the fact that a bullet has perforated the man's eye and stunned him for a second. Shielding his face, he starts to run.

"How is he _still_ not dead," Otabek grits his teeth. The bullet should've entered his brain and the man should've fallen to the ground, whimpering in his last breath.

"I'm chasing him, look for the vigilante!" yells JJ, suddenly accelerating his car and swooshing past Otabek, racing into the darkness after the man.

Otabek halts his bike, inspects his surroundings. The line of vehicles is flipped about like a bunch of toy cars. A few are smashed; one of them is practically a mess of metal halfway dug into the debris of the pavement. Of course, there are those wrecked remains of the bus at the side, lying amidst speckles of glass shards. He walks up to it.

There's a spattering of blood near to it, and... and an open manhole. There's almost a hundred percent probability that the vigilante went right into the sewers.

He looks for any sign of JJ, then pushes the lid of the manhole back in its place. They're all unethical, aren't they. Then he might just be too, for a better cause.

Soon there's a screech of tires and he knows that JJ is back. And he doesn't need to turn and see him plop out of the car, back hunched with disappointment, to know they've failed to catch the man yet again.

"No sign of the vigilante," Otabek announces unprovoked. He has never been good at lying; his forehead gets oddly sweaty and his voice wavers.

"Forget the vigilante," JJ steps out, his tiny smirk has grown wider: he must be pleased with himself for some reason, "I think I've got us a sweet sample."

"What d'you mean?"

"The eye fell out."

" _What?"_

* * *

Yuuri groans.

He must've passed out for a while.

Everything is pitch black but for that blurred line of light glinting on the stream of water. Blurred, right. He's lost his helmet. Everything is blurred now.

He tries to move, and agony singes through his chest. His stomach squirms and he fights off the impulse to vomit, shoving his hand into his utility waistbag instead, fishing for a flashlight – _wait_ , he doesn't carry a flashlight – his phone then, _ah yes_ , he finds it, fingers hovering on the cracks on the screen – he just hopes it's still in working condition.

The phone starts to glow green and he thinks he must've mistakenly called someone – _how did it even manage to get network inside a manhole_ – and shuts it off. There's no point. The glow isn't making things better; he can't see _shit._

He fainted right under the hole he fell through, but right now he has second thoughts about climbing out of the same – if he has enough strength to get back to his feet that is. There's a highly improbable and slightly comedic image nagging at the back of his concussed head – of the man sitting on the pavement patiently waiting to pounce on Yuuri as soon as he gets out, like a cat on its prey.

It could've been hours, days even since he fainted. But his life is a brutal tragicomedy, and he doesn't want to take chances.

It's the universe's way of bringing back balance, because the first thing he spots after he succeeds to get out of the sewers is the blurry outline of a familiar grocery store. It's not even morning yet, and his building complex is just a block away; that saves all the explanations for his disappearance that he thought he'd have to provide. Now he's just going to lock himself in his room, calling sick. That'll excuse him from meeting Victor too, because honestly, he has no idea how to react when he sees him again.

 _Maybe I can jump in and kiss him but..._

No, no. He's just delirious in pain. He can't trust his dizzy head. The earth is spinning three times faster every time he's straining his eyes to stay open. He just needs to get home fast.

He's clumsy, hardly awake. He's not even sure if it's his own window. Another wave of pain seizes him and he doesn't care anymore, just tumbles in, sprawling on the warm carpet. The window shutter falls with a _clang_ , he knocks over a couple of books, a jug of water – _crash kaboom splash_ – eitherr his brain exaggerated it in his head, or he just made enough noise to wake up the entire neighborhood.

He can't afford to care. His head weighs a ton. His chest is burning with every sharp inhale. The room's spinning too fast.

"Yuuri?"

– _thud thud thud_ –

There's shuffling of footsteps at the other side of his door. Someone's knocking on it.

Phichit. _Phichit._ No, no, Phichit isn't supposed to be awake; Phichit has been infamous for sleeping through a fire alarm. _Please don't be Phichit._

"Yuuri, are you alright? Yuuri?" It's indeed Phichit.

– _thud thud thud –_

Maybe Yuuri shouldn't reply. That'll make Phichit think he's asleep, despite the noise. Maybe Yuuri should at least get under a blanket lest Phichit manages to unlock the door. Or maybe Yuuri should just quit trying to lift his fractured body from the floor and drift off to sleep. His phone has been vibrating for a while now... must've been spam calls...

Too late. The door swings open – it's a booming, whirring kind of noise and Yuuri thinks it's time he stops fighting his exhaustion and let it take over – Phichit's there. After Yuuri lost three sets, Phichit became the keeper of all spare keys. And now he's standing just a few feet away. He's stopped. He's perhaps stunned.

The quiver in his voice says it all.

"...Yuuri?"

* * *

So this is how it must feel getting your face smashed into a wall.

Phichit isn't sure what he was expecting as he barges into Yuuri's room – perhaps catching him in the middle of some secret midnight project that'll henceforth clear all those doubts pending in his mind for a while now – but certainly not to find him lying barely conscious on the carpet, groaning in pain, a trail of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

This explains everything: the lies, the excuses, the disappearances, the impulses – Yuuri is one of the vigilantes – _this..._ this explains everything and yet it's somehow incomprehensible – no, _no_ , he'll think about this later. First things first. Yuuri looks badly injured. He needs help.

"I... am sor...ry," Yuuri mumbles out for some reason, as Phichit kneels by his side. Yuuri smells disgusting right now, as if he climbed out of a dumpster or something. Phichit tries to block out the stench – _Yuuri is a vigilante_ – as he cushions his hands under his head in an attempt to lift him into a sitting position. How badly is he hurt? How bad is _bad_?

"What hurts?" he asks naively, his mind halfway onto wanting to phone an ambulance. Before that, they perhaps need to get Yuuri out of this ominous black spandex thing. Good God, it's real. _Yuuri is a vigilante._

"That's... why he... wears gloves," Yuuri breathes out an answer that makes Phichit momentarily forget what he asked in the first place. Phichit rubs at his shoulder, wanting to shake some sense into him without having to physically shake him, fiercely whispering, "Yuuri. _Yuuri_ , focus. Please tell where you're hurt."

"Ribs... head... _ugh_ , ankle fractured..." Yuuri's head is sunken into his palms and he flinches every time he shifts to try a more comfortable sitting position. "Internal bleeding... maybe, _I don't know..._ "

Phichit's hand flies to his mouth in shock, "Oh my god, Yuuri, what – you _need_ to get to a hospital right now – this is really bad –"

In the process of Yuuri vehemently shaking his head and slumping in and out of consciousness every now and then even as Phichit tries to get him to change out of his costume into a T-shirt and track pants, the doorbell rings. It's a high-pitched, grating sound. Phichit almost shudders. Those shrill wavelengths have never ripped through the air at 3:30 a.m before.

Yuuri stiffens, his strong fingers almost clawing into Phichit's shoulders, his eyes wide and terrified. "It's _him_... it's the man – he saw me – he must've followed me..."

Phichit has no idea who Yuuri's talking about, but he doesn't want to let the fear take over, or else it'll overwhelm all logic, and that is something he can't afford right now, for both of them. _Let's think things in perspective_. Someone who almost broke the – the Eros vigilante – dammit, _Yuuri is a vigilante,_ it still hasn't sunken in – will perhaps kick the door down, not just stand there tapping upon the doorbell –

"I'll go check –"

" _No,_ " Yuuri clasps onto the sleeve of his shirt like his life depends on it, "I'll... I'll go..." With it, his voice drifts off and he starts to collapse again; Phichit holds his friend's weight against him and leads him up to the bed. "Yuuri, don't worry. Just... rest."

Good that Yuuri is hardly aware of the world right now. He winces in pain, but manages to relax into the soft mattress, feverishly mumbling. Phichit tiptoes out of the room; the doorbell gets more and more annoying by the minute – whoever standing outside seems to be already running out of patience. An attacker won't make such a fuss – even at 3:30 a.m – would he? An attacker would slip in and out of the window, just how Yuuri does. _Yuuri_ _is a vigilante_. Is this why he rejected Celestino's offer?

The person has now moved on from the doorbell and has begun pounding on the door. It isn't aggressive, but it still scares him; he scurries into the kitchen and pulls out the biggest knife in the set. Just in case.

He does a split-second revision of everything in his head, the hilt of the knife tight in his clammy fist: he has a metal vase on the left side; just in case they succeed in knocking the knife out of his hand. He shifts a little to the left – the vase should be accessible – even as the pounding softens into calm knocking – almost in sync with the violent throbbing in his ears – as he reaches out to turn the knob.

"Hey, Phichit, I know it's a stupid time to visit but I just wanted to check that – _why_ do have a knife in your hand?"

"Victor?"

Phichit lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Panic deflates out of him, leaving an insistent throbbing at the side of his head. Victor is here, for some reason. He looks worried, stains of the drizzle on his shoulders, unruly strands of his hair dripping water. He looks like he's left behind the world to arrive at their door at this unholy hour. Does he know about Yuuri?

Phichit casually puts the knife down on the centre table like nothing is out of the way, shaking his head. "No, I was just... what, what're you doing here though? I mean..." Damn, was that rude? He has too much on his head right now to care about the minuscule of hospitality.

Victor doesn't seem to mind, his eyes searching around the room, perhaps – no, definitely – for Yuuri. "Actually, I..." he begins, "I got a couple of calls from Yuuri and I called him back several times but he didn't pick up. I know it's stupid, but I just wondered if there's been any trouble, so... is everything okay?"

Nothing is okay, and asking is just a formality. Victor doesn't doubt it, not after seeing the knife in his hand. What is he supposed to tell Victor? He's got to take Yuuri to the hospital, and given his injuries, the hospital might just admit Yuuri in, and Victor will eventually find out if Phichit _lies._

"Uh," Phichit rubs at his own groggy eyes, "uh, you're kind of right, Victor. Yuuri got mugged on the street and he's – he's really injured so I was taking him to the hospital right now..."

" _What_?" The hollow-voiced gasp makes Phichit want to go back in time and probably cancel out the only truth in the lie. God forbid if Victor ever knows the whole thing...

"Yeah, he's in his room," Phichit continues to mumble, trying to ignore how Victor's brows are furrowing deeper and deeper in concern "he's changing and –"

Yuuri's door finds this moment to creak, and there he is, pushing his head out through the space. Phichit had presumed that Yuuri fell asleep as soon as he sank on the bed, but no, Yuuri stands surer of himself, having finally changed into a set of civilian clothes, even discovered his glasses amidst the clutter and the darkness. He looks at them with a sleepy, dazed face, a more normal reaction to someone knocking at their door 3:30 in the morning than Phichit's knife-wielding stunt... sans the superheroics and broken bones.

Usually when Phichit and Victor run out of Instagram posts to talk about and fall silent and awkward, it's Yuuri who arrives in between like a breath of relief. Right now, the opposite occurs; Yuuri gazes at the two of them like he's positioned with a multiple-choice question and all its answers look alike. There's a split-second glance at Victor, and Yuuri flicks his eyes to the floor like he's almost afraid, or angry, to see him. Like they've had a domestic falling out... or something. He then drawls out in a low, tired voice, "Phichit, can you just come in for a... I need..." and with it, he stumbles into his room again, the door shutting after him.

Phichit can cut the tension in the living room with that knife on the table. He doesn't even want to imagine what Victor must be feeling right now, at the lack of acknowledgement, the lack of Yuuri's dewy-eyed adoration, the lack of his bright smile upon seeing him. Frankly, he's scared to look at his face.

"I'll get a cab for him," the hurt in Victor's voice _hurts,_ his jaw set, his eyes behind that silver fringe of hair, unreadable.

"Okay, thanks, Vict-"

Before Phichit can finish, Victor is past the door.

Phichit sighs.

 _Tell me again,_ how did they manage to get into this mess?

* * *

It's takes a matter of fifteen minutes for Victor to get a cab waiting by the pavement and trot up to the apartment again, sensing a stone weight of guilt on his chest.

He isn't even sure if guilt's the emotion he's feeling. And not towards anyone in particular.

Or maybe towards Phichit. He makes a mind to apologize to him sometime later, after the storm has passed. To have behaved like a petty child for that one moment, that one tiny moment when Yuuri chose Phichit over him. Why did it sting him like that? Yuuri has a number of people in his lives, and he cares about all of them. Why must Victor receive special treatment? He's just a friend, a college-mate after all. In that sense, Phichit tags higher. He's been in Yuuri's life longer, they are closer; they are roommates.

The moment passed, and the demon left Victor's body as it once possessed it, without a trace. But his mind can't stop reeling back, stilling the time, trying to piece it apart and deduce what it really was. He's never felt that petty in his entire life, and he has been through nerve-wracking competitions; what is this resentment all about? Is he – is he – _jealous_?

It's not a competition, little green monster. They're friends, they're all friends. Victor's not in any way special. To Yuuri. Heck, this isn't the time to think why the concept alone drills a hole in his heart. This isn't the time to think about himself at all. Yuuri needs him _– them_. What the fuck is the matter with him?

As soon as he steps into the living room he's greeted with the faint sound of retching. It comes from the bathroom so Victor heads towards it. The bathroom door is shut, even as the retching calms against the buzz of the running shower.

"Yuuri," he calls out, "Yuuri, are you okay?"

There's no answer. Victor waits right outside the door, his heart bobbing against his ribcage. The shower stops, and there's the metallic clunk of the door bolt sliding open, and Yuuri weakly trudges outside, dragging his foot after him.

"Yuuri," he mumbles again, his voice losing confidence every time Yuuri doesn't respond.

It's not Yuuri's fault. He looks like he's in pain, wincing at every step, his gaze fixed at the floor, his glasses in his hand. Even so his good foot misjudges and trips over the rug, and he almost falls face-first. Before Victor manages to catch him in his arms, that is.

"Victor, you're here," he finally looks up, his eyes glassy and yet wide with child-like wonder. Victor swallows down a massive glob in his throat.

"It's okay, Yuuri, you'll be fine. I'm gonna carry you down the stairs. We have a cab waiting..."

"You're so kind," Yuuri reaches out to cup his face in his hands; a brashly tender thing he has never done before, "You're so beautiful... you're..." he strangles out a small cry as a wave of pain sears through him, then gives him the gentlest grin of his pain-induced high, "you're an angel... _my_ angel..."

Then he slumps on Victor, balling up his shirt in his fists, head lolling from side to side until his consciousness finally gives in; Victor almost sinks to the floor with Yuuri's sudden dead weight on him. His heart has just missed a beat.

And to think Yuuri was somewhere alone in the streets, outnumbered and beaten up – _why would anyone even want to hurt Yuuri_? – when Victor was... away, when he was talking, lecturing, _flirting_ with the vigilante – he doesn't even want to think about the vigilante right now, and thankfully the topic shifted to the rear of his head as soon as he received those missed calls from Yuuri – _those missed calls_ – it's his fault then, if he hadn't missed those calls, Yuuri wouldn't have been hurt...

What's even the point of protecting the city when he can't even protect what is the most precious to him?

The most precious. The words are weighty. They sound like lip-service. And he hardly lived up to them.

Head resting on his chest, Yuuri looks like a baby bird sound asleep, cushioned in Victor's arms. Yuuri is indeed _precious_ , there's no doubt about it. He'd use every big fancy word for him, and mean it. He'd put his medals on auction if that means he gets to see Yuuri smile. If Yuuri asks him to jump into a pool of acid, he'd do it without care.

Because Yuuri is the only one who sees him under his hundred façades. Because he unabashedly wears his breakable, glass heart on his sleeve. He's kind and strong and stubborn and resilient, no matter how much he undermines himself. Because he's Victor's _hero._

And he loves him.

He loves him so _fucking_ much.

Oh, no. Oh, fuck.

He loves him. He's in _love_ with Yuuri Katsuki.

It doesn't sound strange in his head. It sounds unexpectedly natural; it fits together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. He's been blind, and stupid, and dazed, and distracted. He'd confused admiration, perhaps borderline obsession – games and chances and the rush of blood to the head – with love. He's not in love with the vigilante.

He thinks he never was. He thinks the vigilante sensed his desperation, to an extent. He must thank him once he meets him again, which in itself is a doubtful case, given the way he took to his heels the moment Victor took off his mask. It was a game. It's always a game with him: either a game of wits or a game of seduction. Nothing more, nothing less.

 _You can't really choose who to fall in love with, after all._

It was always Yuuri.

"Oh my God, Victor!" Phichit's slightly panicked voice sends him crash-landing to reality, "You freaked me out for a second there."

Victor assumes it must've looked more serious than it is, him cradling Yuuri's limp body in his arms, caressing Yuuri's soft wet hair, massive blobs of tears dribbling down his chin that he just comes to notice. He swipes at own his face absent-mindedly, "Yuuri fainted."

"He's been doing that for a while now," Phichit sighs in concern, picking up the keys, "If we call an ambulance now it'll take them another twenty minutes to arrive. The taxi's honking. Let's go."

The taxi ride is a short and tense affair; everything is stiff, the seats, the cabbie, even Phichit, who's looking out of the window, trying the very best to avoid conversation. Everything except Yuuri, who seems to have comfortably wrapped himself around Victor, head on his lap. Victor can feel the sharp breaths hit his abdomen; another minute more and his palpitating heart is going to outdo the grating noise of the engines behind their seats.

The rain is fierce when they reach, and Victor's got no time for wheelchairs or gurneys. He carries Yuuri in his arms while Phichit holds up an umbrella for them, and rushes to the reception. He tells them it's an emergency, _do it fast, whatever you need to do_ ; almost intimidates the receptionist with his cold stare when she asks them to fill out the form first. He doesn't care; he'll pull off a shitstorm if he needs to.

"Coffee?"

It's been a while since they took Yuuri in. Phichit holds out a steaming cup at Victor. "Thanks," he smiles half-heartedly, grabbing it. Coffee on a sleepless, adrenaline-laced night is probably not a good idea.

Phichit sits next to him, "I had a talk with the doc. He said they ran a few tests and the internal bleeding isn't as bad as they thought. He won't need surgery," he takes a slow slip of his coffee, then continues, "They'll admit him for the night, or whatever's left of it, because of the concussion, I guess, and release him by the morning. That reminds me, I gotta call Celestino."

Victor remembers Yuuri telling him that Celestino is his local guardian in the city, an occasionally nagging, father-like presence. "Hmm," he nods. He doesn't want to talk; any stir of emotion might propel those stupid tears dribbling down his face again.

"Yuuri will be fine, Victor. Are _you_ okay, though? You look terribly upset."

He is indeed terribly, exaggeratedly upset. "I know," he croaks, sending the burning coffee down his throat to get rid of some of these confusing, overwhelming emotions. He knows he's making Phichit uncomfortable, he knows he's mourning like someone has died, but he just can't... _control_ them. "I'm sorry, Phichit, about before. Being rude and all."

"Never mind that," Phichit waves it off with a grin, "We all do stupid things in love."

* * *

 **Thank you for all the reviews! I don't get the time to reply to each of them personally but I appreciate them all very very much! And I swear I'll personally reply to all them once my workload is lighter! Thank you for reading!**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

* * *

"What the _fuck_ , Katsudon?!"

It's so loud that it must've left Yuuri wondering how the door isn't blown away by the sheer force of the voice alone. As expected, the door is flung ajar the next second, and a huffing-puffing- constantly-swearing-under-his-breath figure of Yuri Plisetsky makes its appearance.

Yuuri checks his watch; it's barely past 8, and he's supposed to be still under medically-induced sleep, but somehow he has managed to wake himself out of that surreal slumber and has been staring at the wall for the last five minutes, before the door blasts open. The sound coincides with the noise of hurried footsteps and Yuuri wonders if he's still in some kind of dream because it's Victor who rushes into the living room from the kitchen, instead of Phichit.

"You're here," Yuuri mumbles it out.

"You're awake," Victor does the same, breathlessly.

The deadlock is broken by Yuri's loud annoyed coughing, as he takes the chair closest to the bed and falls on it boisterously. It's like his every action is trying to remind them he's _there_ as well. "So," he begins, bitterly if Yuuri might add, "how does this work, do I have to call in here every hour to find out if any of you got your shit beaten up on the road, because it doesn't look like you're interested in informing me about it anyway..."

"Yura," Yuuri wants to explain, but last night was a daze and he's almost as clueless as Yuri is. It's weird though; the café opens at around 7 for the staff, and Yuri must've caught on the fact that Yuuri never misses a shift (he's late often though, which is why Yuri probably waited an hour before calling ... _Yuuri's guess is_... Phichit), and then ran three blocks to the apartment (Yuri's still short of breath, albeit with a scowl). It's just happened last night, and yet Yuri's outright demanding, almost _hurt_ that no one called him immediately. It's weird because Yuuri didn't know the boy cares _this_ much. It's a good kind of weird.

"He got mugged," Victor tells him, "He just got released from the hospital an hour ago."

"Why'd they even do that, you don't even look rich," Yuri graciously adds, flexing his knuckles, "Who was it? Was it the guy with bushy eyebrows, mole on the lip? He's usually with another guy. Tall? Thin? Did they have a blade on them?"

" _Errhhm_ ," Yuuri fumbles; it's the sound of guilt, guilt of a lie which wasn't even started by him, "look, I hit my head. I don't remember. And you _don't_ need to get out there picking fights for me."

Yuri rolls his eyes at the last part, "I wasn't going to fight. They're my old pals. I would've talked. Would've told them not to pick on piggies."

Yuri is either embarrassed or lying, since bright pink specks are noticeably etched across his pale face. "Let him rest," says Victor; he sounds like he means it. What usually would've come out with false cheeriness came with a vibe of blatant authority, and Yuuri is equal parts scared and curious to know what happened last night after his close escape from death, and where the actual _fuck_ is Phichit right now.

Even the part – the highlight of the night – where Victor revealed his secret (or the secret revealed Victor, _whatever_ ) feels like a part of a vivid dream. The " _My name is Victor Nikiforov_." has been booming in his head in different, operatic voices. It did happen, right? It has to. It's why he ran, it's how the Wanted man found him, it's how he fell into that disgusting manhole and somehow crawled back into the apartment.

The rest is blurry – he remembers Phichit pounding on the door, Phichit finds him, then some more thudding... everything's mixed up here... there's Victor's smile, his tears, Victor looking at him with a sort of affection he hasn't seen before – safe to believe it was all a dream. Until the doctor shined that light in his eyes.

"I heard the geezer cried," Yuri sneers. Victor shuffles at his feet, and then settles on the bed-couch, close enough to Yuuri but not touching him.

"I might have, a bit," he accepts hoarsely.

"You did?" this time it's Yuuri. He's surprised, because firstly, was that not a dream? – and secondly, when has Victor cried before?

Victor gazes at him – what is that gaze? It's making him nervous. It's a gaze of concern and melancholy and a strange affection. Yuuri's confused and he can't ask, not when they aren't alone, and he realises he could've raised the question after Yura was gone.

"You know, it's hella curious how they didn't bash up your face?" Yuri asks out of nowhere.

Yuuri raises his eyebrow, even as the side of his eye catches Victor's posture stiffen, "What?"

"I don't know, when you mug someone you hit the head first. That gets them all floozy and you can roughen up their money."

Yuri does have a point, and if he had more clues to himself he probably would've pieced together all their secrets. Yuuri's brain is tired and sleepy, but before he has to go through the effort of formulating some new excuse, Victor speaks warningly, "Yura. Not now."

He puts his hand over Yuuri's, almost like a mother bird flapping her wings to protect her eggs. It's a strange analogy, but then again Victor has been strangely protective of him since the morning. "Phichit should've been back by now. I needed to go back and feed Makka."

"Wait, _what_ ," as if Yuuri wasn't already sinking into a quicksand of guilt and favours with everyone patching him up and losing sleep over him. Now the poor dog has to suffer too. "Victor, please go right now."

"But I can't leave you here –"

"I am fine," Yuuri insists. Sure, he has a foot in a cast and can't raise his head, but it's nothing so grave that he can't be left by himself for a while. He locks his fingers with Victor's right on top of his – he doesn't know why he does something so... so intimate – his heart skips multiple beats but as long as Victor believes him it should be okay, "I really am fine. Besides Yura's here."

There's that aching, longing gaze again. Their fingers are tight, warmly entwined. "The painkillers are on the table. I'll be back in half an hour. If you need anything, if there's any problem, call me. I won't miss your call again, I promise."

Victor's voice cracks at the end, and Yuuri has no idea what he is talking about. "Okay."

"Holy mother Mary and Jesus Christ," Yuri exclaims like a reaction to a punchline as soon as Victor trots out of the apartment, closing the door after him, "What the _hell_ have you done to him, Katsudon?"

"What d'you mean?"

"What do I mean? You can't see it?" Yuri flails his arms incredulously. "You really can't see it?"

After not being able to recognise Victor under a hood and a flimsy mask, Yuuri thinks it's not that much of a shock. He really can't see it, can he? He can't see Victor through, at least not as well as he thought he could. He _does_ see that Victor's upset, something's bothering him. He knows what's it about – it's about how the vigilante ran as soon as he learnt his identity. If it were possible, Yuuri would've assured him tonight that the secret is safe with him, but alas, that'll have to wait for a week, if not more.

"I have no idea."

"Well for starters, this definitely isn't the Victor Nikiforov I used to know five years ago. He never cared about anything but skating. That guy with that shit-eating grin and the dog wouldn't even have let us abuse his Netflix account like we do, let alone cried over somebody!"

"Maybe you didn't know him well enough," Yuuri reasons. He puts the whole idea of Victor crying over him to the back of his head; he doesn't want to think about it now. The idea makes him happy, and pains him at the same time. It's asking him for a long deal of overthinking. Maybe some time later.

"Yes, either that... or _you_ changed him."

Yuuri's insides twist into a knot at that particular piece of information, and he legitimately doesn't know how to react to it. Something feels... amiss. Yuuri knows about Victor's nighttime activities, his unrequited crush on Eros, Yuuri knows exactly what changed and how, but how did Yuri arrive to the same conclusion? How is _he_ linking things?

"You are fucking daft," Yuri reads his blank face, "And here I was, wondering if you could help me sort out my own love life."

"Is everything okay?" There is an unmistakable sigh of relief in his voice, as the subject changes.

"You deal with your love life and I'll deal with mine," Yuri suddenly changes his colours, "Please do the thing. Ya know, the talking thing. Where two people talk, ya know? Seems like an alien concept to you. _Tsk_ , idiots. Now sleep, or Victor will kill me."

"Stop ordering me," Yuuri whines, eyelids drooping and mind already in a haze. He was supposed to talk. This morning, itself, had last night not happened. He was supposed to tell him. He _still_ wants to tell him. But tell him what, and how? Should he go to Victor as Eros, pull off his mask and bring the vigilante down to the ranks of Yuuri Katsuki? Or should he tell him Yuuri has been Eros all this while? Which one is easier?

"Shut up and sleep," Yuri crosses his legs over to the couch and pulls out a magazine, "Stop overcomplicating everything."

* * *

Stupid.

Stupid stupid stupid.

That stupid Katsudon.

And to think Yuri wouldn't have even known if someone hadn't picked up the damn phone he called on, like a dozen times? They didn't even care. They didn't care that he ran three blocks in one breath and mad fury, after Phichit's " _Oh yes, Yuuri isn't too well today. He's hurt all over and Victor won't stop crying. It's messed up – oh hey, I'm at a crossing, I'll call you later_ –" that gave way to a steady static against his racing heart. They didn't care that he conjured up thousands of worst case scenarios in his head when he heard Victor cried; when did that damn stoic-as-fuck, sly geezer ever cry, _is Katsudon dying_?

On second thoughts, he doesn't want to blame Katsudon. It's a little odd how he hurt himself so badly; Katsudon never seems the type to pick up fights. He must've at least punched the mugger to end up with his ribs smashed like that. _Wow_. Good to know that dumbass has a violent streak. He always seems too fucking pure for the world.

Katsudon can't phone himself a dinner order without rehearsing what he's gonna say and apologises when someone steps on his foot but, Yuri scoffs _, pure my ass._ He's snarky and bull-headed and reckless enough to work at that café. He must've blurbed some nonsense that set off the mugger, hence what happened, happened. Good thing there wasn't a gun involved. Dumbass could've gotten himself killed. And he actually walked home after being bashed up? Man, once Katsudon stops snoozing on those meds he wants to listen to the whole story.

Well, if Katsudon cares enough. _Ugh_. Yuri senses something hot surging at the corners of his eyes and he likes to believe it's lava. He wants to punch the both of them.

A text wouldn't have hurt. It takes a quarter of a minute to send one.

He dejectedly stares at the outline of the dumb café, the pink board at the entrance listing out today's specials, the delivery guy kick-starting his scooter. No annoying presence of Katsudon or Victor today; even Mila is on a leave. That leaves only the possibility of a sudden gruesome death. Boring.

It's only when he receives a text from Otabek telling him he'll visit around the afternoon that Yuri has something to look forward for the day. That's good. The apartment was empty when Yuri left for the café. He guesses Otabek didn't return home at all. Yuri checks the previous messages on the thread. At least Otabek has the decency to _text_ , unlike some people.

When Yuri meets him in the afternoon, Otabek looks like a wild shell of what he usually is – sunken eyes, rare fringes falling over his forehead – maybe it's the lack of sleep. He's run his hands through his hair way too many times, spaced out like he's witnessed a murder. When Yuri comes up to him, he has one question, a direct question – more like – a favour to ask, desperation laced on his tongue.

"Yuri, please tell me about your past. Tell me everything."

It hits Yuri like a punch to the face. First Katsudon, now this. It's futile to expect a peaceful day. Perhaps he shouldn't complain. He knew he had to revisit the demons of his past someday, just that... he thinks he wanted a fair warning. He bites down on his lip, takes in a deep breath. _Don't cry, don't fucking dare cry._

He fights down the urge to throw Otabek's comforting hand off his shoulder. "Let's take a walk, maybe?" Otabek suggests.

"Let's take a walk."

* * *

"I used - I used to be a figure skater."

When he closes his eyes, everything comes back as a morphed, disjointed nightmare, right from current world champion Victor Nikiforov's deal – " _I'll provide you with the best possible senior debut but only if you win the juniors without any quads. Are you up to the challenge, Yuri?_ " – to the roaring sound of the gunshot, to the last flash of his Dedushka on the floor before he was manhandled into a car, to the black smoke swallowing up the sky that turned his St. Petersburg home into ashes. It all comes back.

"I can't do this," Yuri clenches his fists, "I can't narrate shit like this. I – I can – you can ask me questions instead, I'll answer them. But I can't narrate."

"Okay," Otabek lets out a long breath, reaching out to hold his hand but Yuri flinches out of his grasp, "I'm sorry I'm making you go through this but I need to know, Yuri."

"I know. Ask away."

After that flinching, Otabek hesitates, so he assures him. "Also, it was four – almost five years ago. My memory is a bit dodgy. I had my family gunned down in front of my eyes and my house burnt to shreds. You must see cases like that everyday but it's _fucking_ terrifying to still think about it, so I _try_ not to. I thought at first I was being sold off but then I guess they just wanted a new recruit. Williamson drove me into it, said it'd be safer. Yeah, _safer_. That's it, I turned into a stupid peddler and landed up in your cell. You happy, now?"

Yuri guesses his assurances were fake, because he spoke in one breath, made sure his _narration_ cuts through like the edge of a knife, every word sharp and bitter. There's a pause, and he knows his face has grown hot out of pure rage as the cool breeze tingles against his skin.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Why should I be? You had nothing to do with it. Maybe you should go ask Williamson – oh, wait, he's _dead_!"

"I'm sorry about Williamson."

Yuri runs his fingers through his hair. "Look, you don't need to be sorry when you ain't at fault. I know he betrayed me and everything –"

"Maybe he didn't, Yuri," Otabek replies grimly, "but before that, tell me, when you were there, did you ever see anything strange happening? Anything un-mafia-like? Even on accident?"

"No. Everything was systematic, like clockwork. There was some hush hoopla about a room that kind of stank, I think it was a meth lab. There were dozens of disappearances though. Piles of dead bodies sometimes. They needed some kind of intelligent workforce to run the network, I guess. Like I never thought Dimitriy was the kind to get himself trapped in such business. They were also send off to work someplace else, I guess –"

"Who was Dimitriy?"

"A random kid. Like me. Except much smaller. Kidnapped and confused. He and his sister Anastasiya shared the same stupid van with me. His sister kept crying all day. Very annoying. He was quiet and quick-witted though. Sort of reminds me of Katsuki. Two days later they both disappeared. I remember quite well it was that evening when Williamson suggested I should be a peddler instead. He looked scared, like he was always a scaredy cat but that day he looked like he saw a monster in his closet."

Suddenly Otabek stops walking, and gazes into the ground. Yuri narrows his eyes at him; if he's being sappy and sorry again, Yuri might as well punch him. He _is_ narrating his story, isn't he, he's answering the questions, he doesn't need to be sympathised with. Sympathy isn't going to bring back his Dedushka.

"Yuri, I think your associate just saved you from being a pawn of a nasty experiment."

* * *

Here lies the problem: Yuuri wants to, needs to talk to Phichit and Victor – both of them, and neither in the presence of the other. But he's hardly ever left alone, and not just by the two of them; their flat has been a buzzing hub for the whole week, and Yuuri has finally realised the perks of being friends with a cop circle. Everyone wants to know _how_ he got mugged.

He also has ample distractions; being confined to bed has allowed him to finally begin writing his dissertation; he has to build a strategy to take down the Wanted Man; he needs nick some materials out of the university lab to make his super-polymer helmet again; he needs to figure out a way to tell Victor... _things_. Maybe it'll strengthen their partnership, maybe it'll break it. In any case, he doesn't like the idea of Victor loitering alone at nights with the Wanted Man on loose, magic metabolism or not.

He can't sit and wait for information on the Wanted Man pop on the radio anymore. He needs to talk to someone. Someone directly involved with the case. And someone who isn't always on the heels to kill him.

Now only if he can get out of his bed.

 _From: Victor_

 ** _Can I come over?_**

20:04

This is odd. Usually Victor never asks. In any case, Yuuri is alone and bored and lost. He can use some company. Plus, Phichit is on a late shift, so maybe he can finally have the _talk_ with Victor.

 _To: Victor_

 ** _My parents aren't home. ;)_**

 _20:05_ _Delivered_

"What the hell, why did I send that?" Yuuri digs his face into the pillow. What was he even trying to do, flirt? Lighten up the mood? Just random nonsense? Are the meds too heavy? Is he still high?

Victor doesn't reply to it. First he asks for permission to turn up where he practically lives and has promptly arrived once at 3:30 a.m in the morning, and now he doesn't reply to Yuuri's jokes (a bad, unfunny joke, but a joke nonetheless). What's going on? Maybe patrolling the city alone at nights is getting to his head.

He knocks on the door around fifteen minutes later. Pushes the door slightly and peeps in through the gap. "Can I come in?"

"Are you alright?" Yuuri asks from the bed-couch, more than a little befuddled at Victor's odd behaviour.

"Yeah," he says, stepping in, throwing his jacket over on the chair, and quickly glancing around, "Phichit's not home?"

"Nah, I told you," Yuuri feels his collar heat up at referencing to that meaningless text. Well, he's always maxed out at second-hand embarrassment, he shouldn't be surprised at more coming along.

"Oh, right," Victor scratches his head forgetfully. This is the first time they've been alone in a room since the incident.

"Do you want to go out? I can use some fresh air," Yuuri suggests, breaking the ice.

"You shouldn't walk, Yuuri. It's just been a week."

"I'll be fine," not only Yuuri wants to ease up the awkward atmosphere, he also has been itching to try out the walking boot the doctor prescribed him to buy. No one's let him get out of bed yet, and Victor's perhaps the easiest to coax, so he grabs the golden opportunity.

The room spins when he stands, and he reaches out for the table for support. Then manages to trip on a perfectly flat rug; unfortunately, Victor catches him before he falls – of the many of the dozen times he has done it that it has become their own semi-romantic kitsch. Like this time, it's almost always accompanied with Yuuri's failed attempts to prove he's fit to run about the room again.

"Like I said, you shouldn't walk," he leads Yuuri to the bed again. Yuuri uncharacteristically scowls.

"Ugh, I don't like this one bit." Not being able to catch that man. Not being able to get up and moving. Not being able to tell Victor his secrets.

"But I love you."

* * *

Yuuri is all of a sudden very aware of the sounds of the random tyres skidding on the road right by the building, the ticking of the clock to his left, and a certain thudding in his chest that's probably saying _what, whaaat, whaaaat,_ in subtext. He glances sideways as subtly as he can; Victor has buried his face into his sweatshirt deep enough to pass off as a ninja, his eyes on the floor. He looks flustered, not sure whether he did the right thing slipping that detail into regular, trivial conversation.

However, Yuuri's response is something neither of them anticipates.

"Say it again."

It startles Victor; he hesitates. Yuuri inches closer and slides a hand in his silver hair. "I love you," Victor repeats, finally looking up, his blue eyes glazed with mysterious tears, his hand tracing Yuuri's that went into his hair. He stares, and stares; the pain and the longing cuts right through Yuuri. "I love you." With even stronger conviction. "I love you."

And all of a sudden, Yuuri remembers he's not Eros right now, he's just _Yuuri,_ and he's just _Victor_. There are no masks, or games. For this once, he doesn't want to know the _how's_ and _why's_ of the situation, he wants to let it sink. He wants to believe.

"You do?"

" _So_ much," he says, genuinely, touching Yuuri's shoulder like he can't comprehend that Yuuri is real. Yuuri closes in the distance between them; he's forgotten to breathe for a while now, and when he takes in a long deep breath his ribs flare up in protest, but all of that later. He has something to share, too.

"I... love you, too. I – uh, I'm in love with you, as well."

Did that come out right? It's what Yuuri wanted to say for a long time: _I'm in love with you_ means the same as _I love you,_ doesn't it, or did Yuuri misinterpret Victor's friendly words as a moment of grand gesture and babbled his heart out?

Victor's eyes widen as if he wasn't expecting it at all. It takes him a minute to compose himself, and perhaps all his self-control to not jump on Yuuri in excitement. A teardrop rolls down the corner of his eye even as he grins, "So, were you waiting for me to confess first?"

"I've wanted to tell you for a while."

"Oh? And why didn't you, then?" It's a teasing, playful tone.

"You didn't ask."

"Always full of surprises, Yuuri."

"Oh, you have _no_ idea."

( _"Say it. Say it now. You've build up right down to it. Tell him you're Eros."_ )

But they're too close right now; his hand is digging into Victor's soft hair, Victor's is wrapped around the nape of his neck, pulling him even closer if possible. Their foreheads are touching, and their lips are just an inch apart. Yuuri'll rather take a bullet to the chest than ruin this moment with one wrong word. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe –

They kiss, and everything else slips off the registers of his mind. He closes his eyes; his senses are on overdrive, and it's the only thing he wants to think about for the next hundred years... the spark, the heat, the fire. He wants to taste him, and drink him, and... he wants to steal Victor from the world, he wants to be hated as the man who stole Victor from the world.

"Wow," Victor chuckles breathlessly, breaking apart. There's still a certain façade in his smile – it doesn't reach up to his eyes.

"Are you – are you okay?" Yuuri asks, "You still look sort of upset."

"You just see me through, don't you," it's a soothing, perhaps unintentionally sultry voice as he clasps onto Yuuri's hand and pecks on it. One minute in, and he's already so, so affectionate. Yuuri might've just died a little bit inside. Victor smiles into the distance, then sighs, "It's just... _ah_ , it's just that a lot of things have been going around my head lately. Then you got hurt, and..."

Yuuri rubs on top of his hand with his thumb, running out of ways to comfort him, "Victor, I'm completely okay. Just a little sore. I don't even need to take the pain meds anymore." Yuuri feels guilty; this slight injury wouldn't have messed with Victor's head had he known who he's been fighting crime with at night.

"It could've been worse, Yuuri. It was bad enough, and it could've been even worse. If I hadn't missed your calls, I –" he clasps onto Yuuri's hand even tighter, like a child who's afraid to be lost in the crowd, "I don't know what to say. There are killers roaming in the city, and I can't believe I took this so lightly, I just... I've been so distracted. Yuuri, if something had happened to you, I –"

" _Hey_ ," Yuuri cups his face in his hands, brings himself to his lips again, "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Stay close to me."

"Always."

It's a wet, frantic mess of kisses and tears. Yuuri wishes they could talk and talk and talk, but alas, he lied about not taking meds anymore and they're rendering him sleepy again. And perhaps, Victor figured, because soon it's the two of them bundled up together on that bed-couch – Victor almost balancing himself at the edge to make sure he fits while Yuuri receives ample space. Head resting on Victor's chest, taking up the musky scent of his deodorant and slowly drifting to their mingled breaths, a big smile plastered on his face, Yuuri thinks he's only imagined it when he hears Victor mumble, " _There's one more thing..._ "

* * *

 ** _Natsya's journal by Natsya_**

 ** _on August 2, 2017._ ****_3:05 a.m_**

 _Master finally gave me a journal. He says great things take time and everything must be recorded. My English is getting better. I'm writing hard. Master wants me to be Dima's protektor. But Dima is big. I am small. So master gives me a Bowie hunting knife. I keep the knife in plaits of my skirt and no one knows. I protect my little brother. His body is now big but he still my братишка*._ _Dima was ill last night. He only speaks two words now – run, and Natsya. He spoke many words before. His head is idiot now. But his body is more powerful. Somebody hurt Dima. Somebody broke poor Dimotchka's hand and took his eye. Dima cannot move now. Master says he'll mend Dima. Until Dima can move Natsya will protect Dima. Master says bad people must die. Master killed Anya today because she was bad people. She broke the sacred rule. She left message on the dead body with her lipstick. But Dima is good people. So Dima will not die. If Dima is happy then I am happy._

 _Natsya_

* * *

 ** _S_ orry this chapter took so much time. Thank you for the reviews! **


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter twelve

* * *

"Howdy, partner."

Yuuri is hardly dressed for this occasion. It's still young in the night, and Yuuri hasn't yet remade the helmet, so it's a plastic bag around his head with a pair of breathing holes. The new mic makes his voice sound like a male Siri. The cast on his foot is gone but he's still a bit heavy on his feet – perhaps not in the best shape to chase around speeding cars.

Regardless, he watches the Ice Guy's – Victor's – face brighten at the sight of him. "I thought you'll never return." Victor gets up to his feet, stumbles in the hurry to approach him. "I'm sorry about what I did – I shouldn't have broken the rules and – and look, my identity is my responsibility. You are in no way obliged to tell me who you are –"

"Calm down," Yuuri mumbles, his heart throbbing, guilt lurching in his stomach like some unborn demon. It's oddly ominous how Victor's words echoed Phichit's from their conversation in the afternoon.

It started when Phichit told him how a few people on Reddit posted this huge analysis explaining why star figure skater Victor Nikiforov is one of the Detroit vigilantes and that the post is getting viral. Yuuri never verbally disclosed Victor's identity to anyone – he could've sworn on it with his life, but when the news sent him straight into a panic attack, there was little left to guess.

 _"It's okay, Yuuri, it's just a theory_ , _for them anyway_ ," Phichit said, " _You need to talk to him. About this, about that. About everything._ "

Yuuri knew that. He'd been postponing it because that was what he did best; he has been so scared to lose Victor to this confusion that keeping him in the dark sounds convenient, _selfish._ Selfish.

 _"Do you know cops who are married are often posted at different places?"_ Phichit began out of nowhere.

Yuuri looked at him confusedly. He could catch on what Phichit's trying to say but he'd like to be sure.

" _I mean, I think you're in the right to take your time thinking about this. If Victor knows it's you behind that mask, he might start messing up? You might start messing up? I mean, I don't know, but I guess you guys are almost always stuck in high pressure situations, where you need a calm head? If you decide to keep your secret for the sake of the city, it's your decision. You guys love each other anyway, there's never been a third party in this weird love **square**! But then, Victor deserves to know too. I don't know, Yuuri, my man, this is a tough one. It's like Sophie's Choice."_

"Hey, Eros, if you don't mind me asking, what's with this getup? You know plastic bags are not very durable."

Yuuri stifles a laugh. "I ruined my helmet."

"Hence you took that vacation? I really thought it's because of me. Anyway, I have loads of new info," he ushers Yuuri to sit opposite him before pulling out a notebook – Yuuri can't help but think whether he'd have figured Victor's identity right now what with his handwriting staring him in the face, had that mask-ripping stunt hadn't happened – maybe not.

"The Wanted Man is probably a cyborg," Victor starts. Yuuri answers in compliance, "I know, I kind of had an encounter with him two weeks back. He broke my ankle."

Yuuri doesn't know what he's trying to do throwing that glaring hint at Victor's face but it just ricochets off his hood and disappears into nowhere. It may not be as obvious as he thinks, after all. "Are you okay now?" Victor asks, and when he nods, he continues, "anyway, I found this from the police. He's not just a cyborg. He's probably been human at some point, or maybe he still is. More shockingly, he's probably a child."

"A child?"

"Remember that trafficking ring we busted? They weren't trafficked for the sex market. They were all children prodigies, and they were all brought to be experimented on. I guess whatever that gross experiment was, it worked better on kids. _Ugh_. Another thing, remember that officer's house that was blown up? There was a black box with a message in it. Apparently some Russian cult is scrawling the same message all over the city. Not sure what it means, but I get a feeling that it's all connected."

"God, I feel the same," Yuuri tells him breathlessly, his heart racing, "How did you find all this anyway?"

"Remember that cop that tried to shoot you? Jean Jacket something?"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, so I kidnapped him in his own office and duct taped his mouth shut and kept him on gunpoint, then asked his partner to tell me everything. It went pretty smoothly."

"You did _what?!_ "

"C'mon, it was an empty threat!" Victor protests light-heartedly.

"Okay, but stop threatening police officers, they already don't like us! Also, you need to lay low. The internet people are sharp."

"That Reddit thing? Yeah, I saw it," he waves it off, "They've got it all wrong. My hair is not silver, it's platinum."

 _How in the world couldn't I realise this guy is Victor?_ "Okay..."

"Um, Eros, not like it affects you but there's one more thing that happened to me while you were away."

Yuuri tenses up. What happened that he doesn't already know about? Did that Wanted Man attack Victor as well? Is he hiding any injury? Yuuri tries not to be frantic – _goddamn Phichit was right_ – even as his voice shakes when he asks, "Wh-what is it?"

"I found love." There's an unmistakable softness in his words. It makes Yuuri so giddy and light that he thinks he'd fall over. He wishes if he could've been like Victor, committing grand gestures, whispering sweet nothings, making him feel like the luckiest man in the world.

Instead, Yuuri is the moron of the weirdest kind, and just like him he answers, "Congratulations. I'm happy for you."

* * *

For a week, Yuri has tried not to think about it. Hasn't spoken much either. After Otabek told him about some kind of nasty experimentation, he shut up for good as well, maybe out of guilt. Maybe for rubbing Yuri's old wounds raw. Or maybe just for Williamson's death. In fact, there has been a strange distance between them the whole week. They need to sort things out, soon, before things start spiralling down to the point of no return.

 _Man, relationships are hard._ And it's not even a legitimate relationship. Is it? Yes, they kissed and all but that was it. Otabek asked if he wants to be friends. _Friends._ They don't even know each other well enough. Do they? Yuri knows Otabek likes cats, he likes sitting to the left, he likes clicking his fingers and that the undercut was a mistake but it suited him so he kept it.

Most importantly, Otabek is the policeman and he is, or at least was, a criminal. It's a star-crossed love and no matter what, Yuri can't get that out of his head. If they, for the lack of the better word, start _dating_ , Otabek will lose his reputation. In the same vein, the police shall always be the assholes that they are and make errors in judgment, and Yuri will lose people from his side.

"Yura, can you bring that guy in red an Americano and a pecan pie? I have my hands full at the moment," it's Yuuri Katsuki, appearing from nowhere – or maybe from his right, he doesn't care.

"Trash," Yuri snaps. Katsudon looks up from his notepad with that deer-in-the-headlights face, then whines, "Right, I know that's my middle name, but can you just –"

" _No,_ I'm taking out the trash," he clarifies, lifts up the pudgy plastic bag in his hand, then turns before a response, almost skids through the narrow kitchen pathway and slams the exit door behind his back.

No wonder as soon as the pig got back on his two feet he has begun to annoy him. He can't complain, however, because the last two weeks have been dreadfully boring. At the same time, he's helped in three arrests. _Wow,_ he guesses his one-track mind actually works when not around that stupid mobile crossword game that'd only load on Katsudon's phone. Yuri can't believe he got himself addicted on something as boring as crossword, _damn that idiot_ –

The world tilts as a sudden punch sends him crashing into the wall beside the dumpster. Yuri flings his own fist on instinct, and before he can look a strong hand grabs it. Yuri glares, " _Motherfucker_ –"

He doesn't dare to say – or do – anything else now that he finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun. The moment of indecision takes away any upper-hand if he had any, a muscled arm goes snaking around his neck - he can't see who it is. Four men are in front of him – two suited up, and two carrying an axe and a rifle too big to notice what they're wearing.

"You gutter rat," and with it comes another punch to Yuri's face – he feels a line of blood trickling down his cheek, "betraying your own family? I want to hit your _fucking_ filthy face until you choke on your own blood and die."

Yuri has a vague feeling – not that it matters – that he has seen the talking man before; he used to be a peddler just like Yuri was. Seems like he got promoted up the ranks. The fact that a brawl long back had led Yuri spit on his face doesn't help the situation either.

From the corner of his eye, he sees one of the men lock the café's exit door with a metal rod. _That's bad_ , now he can't call for help... he'd have alerted Mila but his arms are locked behind this broad-chested mercenary, too far from his phone pocket...

"Now listen here," the man talks like he suddenly wants to negotiate, "I wish I could kill you right here and now. But I've got to take back what you told the police. The faster you spit it out, the better."

Yuri smirks. He knows there's no surviving it, so he might as well take it head-on. He tries not to stir the deep pinching in his chest; he's not going to see anyone again. Otabek, or... Katsudon or Victor. It's been a good while – perhaps the best he could've asked – not that he'd have ever said it aloud. He _did_ love Otabek – despite their problems – and his only regret is perhaps he should've worded it better.

That being said, Yuri was just asked to spit, and he does, right on the man's face.

" _You little_ –" the man cocks the gun in rage, the muzzle pushing into his forehead and imprinting on his skin. Yuri stares at it, defiant. He'll not close his eyes, not this time. There's no silencer either – there's going to be a loud _bang_ , just the way he'd like to go out.

But then the man removes his gun and points it at Yuri's knee instead. "But I have a job to do. Would you like to speak before or after I blow your kneecaps apart?"

Yuri's insides tilt in discomfort. He knows that's not a negotiation. He tries not to think about the pain of a bullet imploding into bone. He's not going to die instantly – _he doesn't want to die, he doesn't, he doesn't want to die –_ he's about to feel his nerves squeaking in his ears. "Go fuck yourself, why don't you."

"Let him go."

Yuri's heart leaps out of his chest. It's fear, dark and terrifying and clawing up his insides as he hopes – _prays_ – that he just hallucinated the voice. _No, no, please don't be –_

And he's there. Just standing there. Apparently unfazed at the sight of so many weapons. Asking them to let Yuri go. This is just like _him_ , this idiot, ramming into a situation he doesn't belong to.

" _No, no! What the fuck are you doing?!"_ Yuri screams before he thinks, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes before he can think, struggling against the iron grasp of the mercenary. What the _fuck_ is Katsudon thinking? He's unarmed and – _wait_ , is he trying to buy time before the police arrives? Is he trying to distract them? _No no no no – Yuri is not going to let him_ – _Yuuri is not dying because of him, no –_

When the man, whose face Yuri spat on, turns to Yuuri, Yuri's screams get more incoherent, more desperate. " _No, please – don't hurt him he has nothing to do with this! I'll give you the names, please just – "_

It doesn't matter what Yuri does – Yuuri sealed his fate the moment he stepped in here: he's a witness and the mafia won't leave one behind, especially one who has crossed them. Yuri senses a streak of rage seething through his head like a white-hot wire – _why is he doing it, why – what about his family – what about Victor_ –

"Are you going to kill me?" Yuuri asks the gunman, almost naïvely – _and yes they are, Katsudon, you stupid noble fuck,_ and now Yuri will have to watch it all over again – watch someone he cares about drop dead to the ground – it's Yuri's fault – this is the second time Yuuri threw himself in front of the bullet for him and this time all too knowingly –

A series of shots ring out and Yuri shuts his eyes tight, tears pricking his eyes like acid. He _can't_ watch a friend die. A guttural sob escapes him. _No. No no._

"I'm sorry, I thought you were going to kill me?"

Yuri blinks. _What?_

Yuuri is still standing, just the way he was, unhurt, undaunted, and probably a little annoyed. Whatever happened when the shots were fired and Yuri closed his eyes seems to have scared the men instead. It's a deadlock, but they have inched closer to Yuuri, guns at the go.

This time the rifle fires, and Yuuri dodges the bullet – _did he just fucking dodge it how is that humanly possible what the fuck is happening_ – as it strikes the axe-wielding man right opposite him who flops to the ground, axe flying out of his reach. The rifle guy fires again – Yuuri dodges _again_ – before grabbing the muzzle and bending it – like, _like_ something out of a Bugs Bunny movie.

At this point, Yuri wonders if he is dead and all this crazy shit is just a pain-induced dream in his head, before it dawns on him. He _knows_ , he knows who that is. He has seen those moves before, it's _his_ signature style – the vigilante who's been mysteriously missing in action for the last two weeks, because – _oh god everything makes sense now_ –

"I think I speak for everyone when I say we stop fighting and take this bleeding gentleman to the hospital before he's sent to prison for the rest of his life," there's an odd calmness – _cockiness?_ – to Katsudon's voice... he doesn't even sound like himself anymore, he sounds like – like someone who has a regular habit of flinging criminals left and right. Yuri can physically feel the circuits of his mind fuse out one after one.

Soon Yuri is dropped to the ground as the mercenary holding him joins the ambush. As his face smacks the earth, dirt sticks to the cheeks that are wet from those needlessly spilt tears. When he looks up, the fight is over, the men are knocked unconscious, and Yuuri Katsuki stands alone like it was no big deal, like it was written at the back of his hand.

Yuuri rushes to him. "Are you okay?" he asks, fervently, nervously? – Yuri doesn't think he could've used _nervous_ to describe him again but there it is, like a flip of a switch. Katsudon's eyes search him up and down for injuries and there's one on his cheek, but before he can dab his handkerchief on it, Yuri flinches back. Then freaks.

"Fuck, fuck! _Fuck_! Fuck –"

"I know –"

"Fuck you, you – _you're_ – you're –"

"I am, sorry you had to know this way, Yura –"

"You freak! I thought – I was so sure you were gonna die – you _psycho_!"

Katsudon just stands there, apologetic, not knowing what to do or say. Yuri eventually calms down, sniffing, sighing, letting things register in his head. In spite of that heart attack, Katsudon did save the day. Katsudon's a _fucking_ superhero. He's a _fucking_ outlaw. He's _the_ coolest person in the city. Yuri feels... surreal. Katsudon knew his shit when he said the t-shirt line got the helmet wrong. More importantly, Yuri _owns_ that t-shirt. A t-shirt with Katsudon on it. _Yeughh._ He needs to burn it. But it's also fluffy and comfy so maybe not...

Well he'd just say he burnt it but not actually burn it. That is _so_ not the point right now –

"I called the police and the ambulance," Katsudon tells him, eyeing a minivan that zoomed past them, "let's get out of here. My place. After that, we need to go to Victor's apartment."

That reminds him.

"Wait, Katsudon."

He turns a bit, "Yeah?"

"Does he know? Who you are?"

"Does _who_ know?"

"Don't act coy, dumbass. You know I'm talking about Victor."

Katsudon stiffens, then looks away. His face flushes down a shade. It's hardly embarrassment – it's more like – concern.

"No. I thought it goes without saying, but here it is. It's still a secret. If it gets out, it's gonna throw everyone in danger. People are gonna get hurt, Yura, and I'm not even talking about the police –"

"Why haven't you told him?"

Yuuri sighs in defeat, guilty of dodging around the subject.

"I - I haven't had the chance to."

* * *

Back in that cramped apartment, when Yuri glances up, Katsudon is still examining his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. "It think it's done," he says, then adds cheekily, "I'm scared that the band aid's gonna snap from the cheek if you smile too much, but I don't believe that's gonna be a problem."

Yuri wants to glare, but his mind is too unfocused. Instead his mind does something Yuri had warned it against; Yuri starts to sob. He's pathetic now, and he can't even hide it because it's not like the slow-forming film of water in his eyes he occasionally has to deal with. It's the hideous fat blobs of tears running down his face and dropping down his chin. His face is crumbling up, he's jerking back and forth with every sob.

Katsudon panics. "Oh god, I'm so sorry! Please, it was a joke, I don't know how to joke! I'm a stupid, horrible person!"

This dumbass.

"Yura," Katsudon approaches the second time more tactfully, "I know it's scary but those people are not gonna put a hand on you. We'll – I'll – I'll keep an eye and besides, the police is on their tail. Trust me, I _know_."

He rubs at Yuri's shoulder cautiously more than comfortingly, as if he's worried that Yuri might combust in flames at too much provocation, trying to look through the mess of Yuri's long hair to see if he's still crying.

"I sometimes miss my Dedushka," Yuri chokes out, unable to look up, ears flaming in shame for breaking apart in front of someone he's only known for about six months, "My grandpa. He was my world."

"I'm sorry, Yura," Katsudon mumbles sincerely, "I can't imagine how hard it must've been you, everything that you've gone though –"

"– I don't want your pity," he growls, "You don't even know anything!"

"I _know_ you used to be a brilliant skater. I know you got kidnapped and dragged into the mafia ring. I know you're yelling at me all the time and you need to look _hard as nails_ because you think you're fighting alone, but let me tell you something Yuri, you're not alone. It may mean nothing to you but Victor and I always have your back."

It doesn't mean _nothing_. He isn't invulnerable to emotions and he's already making quite a show of it. He sobs harder, clutches onto the sleeves of his own shirt and melts under Katsudon's warm, firm, _familial_ grip on his shoulder.

"Breathe, Yuri," Katsudon guides him through it, "Breathe slowly. In and out."

Soon the sobs subside and they make a pact to never mention this episode in the apartment or back at the coffee shop ever again. Yuri waits on the pavement as Katsudon locks the door and saunters down the stairs, lost in his thoughts.

"Gah," Yuri tries to lighten the mood, "you take so much time, Katsudon. You can just jump down from the tenth floor!"

Katsudon gives him that annoyed-yet-amused sideways stare which is always too blocked by his specs to have its effect. "You know you need to keep quiet, don't you. My secret in return for yours."

Yuri scoffs, "If I tell everyone you're some vigilante freak, you'll tell everyone I cried? Yeah, _fair bargain_ , superhero."

"Howww did you make superhero sound like an insult?"

"Okay, Katsudon," he plants his fist into his palm, as if readying for a fight, "I need answers to a few questions now."

Yuuri sing-songs with a sigh. "Shoot."

"Was there any banana peel?"

"Wha – _oh_ ," Katsudon deflates as he remembers, "No. I knew about the bullet."

"I _knew_ that was fishy. Next, you weren't mugged, were you. What really happened?"

"Yuri, do we really need to –"

"You owe me answers!" Yuri declares dramatically.

" _What_?" Katsudon raises a confused brow, "I don't, really. But I'll tell you. No, I wasn't mugged. I got into a fight with that Big Man, you know? – the wanted murderer? I lost real bad, but I managed to escape before he could kill me. That's all there is to it. I lost my mask, and Phichit saw me without it, and so – um, now _two_ people know."

"Oh," Yuri finds his mind reeling, but ignores it and moves on, "okay, next question, how do you pee in that spandex suit thing?"

"Okay, people need to stop asking that!" he blushes an alarming shade of red, "There's – there's a zip. Of course there's a zip!"

"Last question, Katsudon. Who is that dumbass you hang around with?"

Yuri notices him visibly flinch. "I don't know," he answers too fast, "he's never shown his face."

"You know the internet thinks it's Victor Nikiforov."

Yuuri lets out a nervous laugh at that. "Phichit told me."

"You know, I think so too."

Yuuri doesn't say anything.

Yuri tries to explain, "I was mad at the dumbfuck for a while because I thought the bastard's two-timing, with all those vigilante stories I see on TV and stuff the magazines make out, and at the same time leading you on. But I guess it was you all along, so that solves it."

"It doesn't solve anything!" Katsudon almost shouts, then steps backs as if he spoke too much, "I mean, look – um, Victor's never led me on. He told me from the beginning that he liked someone else. But then things changed, and we fell in love – I guess. As for the Ice Guy – the Wizard or I don't know what people call him – we only have a professional relationship. The papers – they're lying – there's no _real picture_ of Eros out there in the media."

"I believe you," Yuri says, "but you have to consider he's Silver Shot. Like, haven't you noticed, he never wears gloves. And Victor _always_ wears gloves! If the old man is the ice man, it's always been the two of you _waltzing_ around each other's lives in the dumbest ways possible. That's some crazy shit right there. If I write a book on it, I'll be famous! "

It's right then that they reach Victor's place and Katsudon grabs that opportunity to not answer. "Are you ready?" he asks instead, halfway through twisting the doorknob, a mysterious smile cropping up on his face.

"Ready for what -"

" _Happy birthday, Yuri_!"

There's a loud cheer from the living room as soon as the door swings open – _are they addressing me – what the fuck_ _is this upside-down world where Katsudon is a superhero and people celebrate my birthday_ _– it's not even my birthday_ – from the huddle at the centre. Yuri finds his breath reeling – _dammit, crying once a day is enough_ – when he notices Otabek, the softest smile on his face.

"Otabek did this," Katsudon whispers to him. Yuri knows how much Otabek hates interacting with strangers, and how busy he's been – in fact, he has a flight this night itself – and yet to arrange all this just to make Yuri happy, _heck_ , for all of them to be there –

Without thinking, he runs into Otabek's arms. He doesn't remember the last time he's spent time with _family_ , and hell he's not going to miss this one.

* * *

"You know, it's not like you to leave the ice to find someone you want to protect."

When the statement comes, it irks Victor. The conversation didn't start from there; it held up a pretty friendly-teasy tone until then. He'd only been gushing to Chris about how much in love he is with Yuuri. Chris doesn't question much, doesn't even bring up the vigilante. As if Chris knew this was going to happen. Too bad they all knew and they did nothing to help Victor figure it out. Of course, Victor chuckles to himself, he can only be so strong. _Anyone_ will fall for Yuuri.

It was then Chris drops a bomb: he asks about Victor's plans to return next season, he talks about long distance, he says only a handful of relationships survive that crisis.

"I'm not leaving." Victor says automatically. He's had enough of gold medals for himself. He doesn't want to live apart from Yuuri. He wants to live _with_ him. He wants to wake up to his face every morning.

"What?" Chris does a double-take, "You only said it was a break!"

"I know I did but," he trails off. _I didn't expect to fall in love..._

"Oh, I see."

"Don't tell him about this," Victor beings to ramble, nervously, _warningly_ , "If he hears a word of this he'll think it's his fault and he's going to –"

" _You know, it's not like you to leave the ice to find someone you want to protect._ "

Victor clenches his jaw and fills his glass for another drink. He thinks that is weirdly judgemental of Chris, and then it dawns upon him like a life-altering epiphany – Chris has always been _just_ a friend. The friend he shares drinks with. A friendly rival, and a sort of enabler. Chris doesn't know what's _like_ Victor and what isn't. How would he? Chris had never been that close. Victor has never let anyone come close.

No-one knows Victor's doomed two of his past relationships because he couldn't keep things casual. No-one knows he has stayed up all night reading a Nicholas Sparks novel and then cried into his dog's fur. No-one knows he likes to slow dance to kill time. Heck no-one even knows he likes Beyoncé because it never fit with his image.

No one except Yuuri.

(In all honesty, he ran his mouth too much and the vigilante knows too, but he'll just call him a pen-pal.)

It's almost as if Chris senses his annoyance. "Look," he concedes, "I'll word it better. I wasn't talking about skating. It's yours to decide what you want to do and I'll say _come back!_ – but it's okay if you don't want to. I was talking about the city. I've seen that – that _man_ you're dealing with on TV. I think that vigilante made you feel like it's your responsibilities to get rid of it, not the police's. You're only trying to protect Yuuri by staying back. Aren't you?"

Oh, right.

Protecting Yuuri. He's done everything but that.

He can only imagine how it'll go down. He's not scared anymore that Yuuri won't understand – of course he will, if Victor knows him well then he'd want to bend over backwards to help him. Victor can't – _won't_ – allow that. Not like he can keep Yuuri off the streets. Yuuri is reckless and stubborn and... so, so selfless. _No,_ Victor can't even picture it, he can't see him in the midst of the battle, he can't picture Yuuri get hurt...

He's got to tell him who he is and break it off. He doesn't _deserve_ Yuuri. He has to keep him safe.

The thought alone feels like someone punched a knife in his gut and twisted it. His vision swims with tears. The alcohol _has_ to make it worse, he senses this sudden need to reach out to Yuuri, to dive into his arms, to cry –

"Victor!"

There's music, and Yuuri is dancing. His cheeks are flushed, his shirt is coming undone, there's a scarf wrapped around his head for some reason. He's grinning, he's huffing, and he's genuinely out-dancing the birthday boy.

"A dance-off?" Victor repeats when Yuuri says it aloud.

"Yes," Yuuri laughs again, almost tumbles on him. He's clutching onto Victor's sweatshirt like his life depends on it. He's so drunk. "Dance-off. I... I won, so I get... I get to choose. I choose you! Dance-off with me!"

Victor thinks this is vile torture. He just allowed his head to entertain a possible, practical – perhaps _inevitable_ thought to breaking it off, and he deserves at least a miniscule of success. His heart needs to stop palpitating. He needs to stop getting nervous at Yuuri playfully nudging his head against his chest. He needs to stop staring at the curve of his smile. He needs to stop getting surprised by his drunken brashness.

He needs to stop _falling._

He can't win against Yuuri. Before he knows it, he's pulled into the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the room. From the side of his eye, he sees Yura grumbling about the dance-off and threatening to leave his own party. The song shuffles and he hears some more drunken clapping at the back, and he's suddenly engaged in a happy dance. Yuuri's hand is on his waist, and his brown glassy eyes are gazing into his.

"I have a secret to tell you," Yuuri giggles, and unexpectedly scoots closer, hands reaching up to Victor's neck and pulling him close. Victor can feel his breath against his ear. He isn't spared a second to prepare for the storm that this man is.

"I love you," Yuuri whispers into his ear, then laughs like he made a bait-and-switch joke. "I love you. Do you love me?"

He does. So much it hurts. He never fails to mention it. Why is Yuuri asking again? Did he read Victor? Can he guess something's going on in Victor's head?

(Maybe Yuuri's just drunk.)

Yuuri's expression crumbles when Victor hesitates. "Do you not love me?"

He's drunk.

He's drunk.

It doesn't matter what Victor says. He probably won't remember.

"Look at me," Yuuri insists, "Just look at me."

"I am looking at you." _I can look at you forever._

Yuuri nudges his forehead against his, and Victor wonders what's suddenly got into him. Perhaps Victor's drunk as well. "Never take your eyes off me," Yuuri says. They may drunken words, but they are intense. Victor always knew that Yuuri has a certain rough _edge_ , this intensity that keeps smouldering at the surface of his usually bumbling self, and now, suddenly it's just – _out there_ , bludgeoning Victor in the face. Sometimes Yuuri feels like a different person. Like an unsolvable mystery.

And really, Victor _can't_ look away.

"I should call a taxi," Phichit suggests an hour later as the party began to disperse, staring concernedly at Yuuri's form laying passed out on the couch. Yuri and Otabek left early because apparently Otabek has a flight to catch, which Victor half-wonders is just an excuse for them to get some alone-time. Chris told him he'd be taking the last train to Cleveland, and is packing up his things right now.

"I don't want to wake him up," Victor thinks he should get Yuuri a blanket. As soon as the alcohol wears off, he's going to get cold. "He can stay the night here."

"Oh, right. You're his boyfriend now."

"Planning to give me the shovel talk?" Victor asks cheekily.

Phichit laughs lightly. "I know you, Victor, and I trust you. I've seen the way you look at him. In any case, I don't need to protect Yuuri. If you hurt him, he can hand your ass back to you himself, I promise that. And if he ever needs a hand to hide a body, I'm always there."

"Frankly, I'm now a little scared."

Phichit grabs his coat, pats Makkachin who's been nipping at their feet for attention, and then leaves for the door.

"Just be careful with your words. His glass heart shatters real easy."

Eventually Chris leaves (with a wink and a thumbs up, whatever the hell that meant), and two of them are left alone, one awake and one asleep. Victor fetches a blanket to cover Yuuri. He's been sleeping in a really awkward position; that arm trapped under him is going to be really sore in the morning. Victor tries to pull it out – and succeeds, only to roll him over and drop him to the floor. Good thing that the blanket cushions the fall, but it startles Yuuri awake.

"Victor!" he gasps out, looks around in alarm, "Where's everyone else?"

"Everyone left," he replies, "I'm sorry I dropped you! Are you hurt?"

"No," he trails off, sitting upright on the floor, back against the couch. "Victor, we're alone."

"I know," Victor turns away, shuffling the pile of blankets and carrying them back to the bed, "You had a lot of champagne. Are you feeling sick?"

"I'm okay," he drawls, still slurring on his words and occasionally phasing out, "Will you come close to me?"

Victor's heart almost leaps out of his mouth. He trots back to Yuuri, then kneels before him. And then pecks on his hand like a grand gesture of love. "Are you dizzy? Can you not stand? Do you want me to carry you to bed?"

"No," Yuuri falls against his chest and Victor suspects Yuuri can probably feel his heart ramming against his ribcage, "I'm afraid of losing you. I love you so much. Will you kiss me?"

"Not tonight, _solnyshko_. You're drunk."

"Oh right," Yuuri stares at the floor, disappointed, "who's... who's solnysh... who's that?"

"It's a term of endearment. _Ty moyo solnyshko._ "

"What... what does that mean?"

"You are my sun. My sun. _Moyo solnyshko._ "

"Is it... is it for me? Is that me?"

"It's always you," Victor whispers in his ear like a lullaby, supporting Yuuri as he staggers up to his feet, "Only you."

"So... do you love me?"

 _Just be careful with your words. His glass heart shatters real easy._ "I do, Yuuri," he says, in spite of himself, "Never doubt that."

"Will you still... will you still love me if I'm not what you thought I was?"

Victor glances up, unsure why Yuuri asked that, then laughs sadly because whichever drunken thought propelled that question, it resonated with him all too much to just ignore it. "I love _you._ Whoever you are, I accept all of you." He tucks in the sides of the blanket and adjusts Yuuri's pillow. "I hope you'll do the same for me?"

"Uh-huh. I already did," Yuuri slumps over on the bed and shut his eyes with a wide, satisfied smile, "I'll tell you... all about it..."

"It's just sometimes, some things just aren't meant to be," Victor mumbles, almost to himself as he takes the other side, blinking back his tears, "Go to sleep, solnyshko."

After a while Yuuri gives out an adorable giggle in the quiet of the night. He's still awake. "Are you going to call me... that... from now on?"

"Do you like it?"

"Mhmm. I do."

* * *

 **sorry I've been gone awhile, I kind of had issues with my mental health, and also I'm really grateful to those who keep reviewing and following this story. Thank you for having faith in me.**


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

* * *

 **Warning : This chapter contains nsfw. It's marked by "xxx" in the beginning and end. Skipping the part will not affect the story.**

* * *

 ** _Natsya's journal by Natsya_**

 ** _on August 11, 2017. 4:10 a.m_**

 _виктор Никифоров_

 _виктор Никифоров_

 _виктор Никифоров_

 _виктор Никифоров_

 _виктор Никифоров_

 _виктор Никифоров_

 _виктор Никифоров_

 _виктор Никифоров_

 _Natsya_

* * *

Yuuri wakes to the warmth of morning sunshine on one side and the dullness of a headache on the other. He shuffles, and discovers an empty side of the bed and then slowly the fact it doesn't belong to him, neither does the ceiling, nor does the – _wait_ , is he at Victor's? It seems to come back in flashes: there was a small party last night, there was some dancing, and undoubtedly, a hell lot of alcohol.

Yuuri fumbles with the sheets and glances down at himself. He doesn't know what came over him last night when he binged on that champagne – knowing full well _who_ he becomes when he's drunk - he makes sure he still has his boxers on, and _thank God,_ he does. He probably didn't do anything stupid, except telling Victor he's his vigilante partner. Maybe. Who knows. He won't, not until he sees Victor.

And he does, the next minute.

"Morning, solnyshko," Victor erupts into the bedroom with breakfast-for-two. There's a big, warm smile on his face. Victor doesn't know, or it wouldn't be there. Victor places the tray in the bed and kisses him on the cheek. Yuuri melts under his touch, guilt clawing him from inside. "I ordered some breakfast. I was a little too hungover to make some."

"You ordered toast and eggs?" Yuuri laughs gently, relishing the brush of his cold cheek against Victor's neck and the soft, cotton fabric of the shirt against his forehead. The bliss is perhaps short-lived. "And pancakes," Victor replies, "pancakes that splattered all over the floor. And I need your help to clean it."

They kiss, and the breakfast is so forgotten that Yuuri's sure if it could speak it would've groaned its way out of the room. The thought propels a giggle out of him, and Victor raises his eyebrows.

"Is your tongue ticklish?" He asks jokingly.

"My breath sucks right now," Yuuri replies, "how are you even kissing me?"

"I love your breath. Breathe all over me?"

"... And you just ditched sense for sap."

Yuuri can't help but notice everytime Victor smiles, it dissolves into something sombre. Like there's a thorn stuck in his feet. Like there's some constant thought – as if, as if he _knows_ something – god, _god_ , he knows, doesn't he? Does he know? Does he not know? Yuuri can't stay put under the benefit of doubt. In any case, Victor _should_ know. If he's going to jump into a relationship with Yuuri, he _has_ to know. Yuuri must clear things and give Victor the scope to back out before it's too late.

"Is something bothering you?" Victor asks, softly, _so_ softly, nuzzling his face against Yuuri's. There's a hint of stubble and Yuuri enjoys it, and that automatically clenches his heart. He doesn't want this to end. "Yes," Yuuri tells him; no subtle nods, only clear, verbal conversation, because that's how it must go.

"Something's bothering me too," Victor says, and looks away. He stops with his gentle touches; and it hurts, it's exactly what Yuuri was afraid of. He yearns for Victor's warmth, his touch, but if that's how it must go...

"You first," Yuuri nudges him, breath caught up in his throat.

"Okay," Victor sighs, then looks up again. His eyes are sad and blue, and blue and desperate. "Yuuri, I love you. I love you so much but," he tears up, clears his throat and continues, "I don't think it's a good idea that we stay together. I mean, I'll explain. Just... give me a moment."

They sit in silence as Victor takes his time to organise his thoughts. Yuuri stares down at their intertwined fingers. He feels blinded, tears dribbling down his face; his head throbs at the side, something inside him screaming, _screeching_ like nails on a wall, screaming _it's your fault_ , of course it's his fault, he messed this up. Victor's never going to trust him again. Yuuri had something wonderful and he ruined it.

"Yuuri, I," he takes in a deep breath, "I am a vigilante. I am one of those _two_ vigilantes. I have powers, and I – that isn't the point. The point is – I put myself in this without thinking, and now I'm winded up in it – and I, I got to do it. I got to protect these people and... something very scary is out there. It's not just about that Wanted Man – you know about that mass murderer, right? I can't risk it, Yuuri. If anyone finds out who I am, they'll target you. I can't risk you getting hurt."

Yuuri realises he should've spoken first. Victor doesn't _know_.

"Victor - "

"I'm not trying to make your decision for you, Yuuri, but please, _please_ understand –"

"Listen to me," he begins calmly, even as his insides are screaming. Victor looks like a mess, and he can't afford to be one too, or this conversation would go nowhere. "Us being apart isn't going to put me in any less danger."

Yuuri approaches it in a roundabout way, because he hoped he wouldn't have to word every word aloud and watch Victor's trust break brick by brick, but then comes the "What do you mean?"

Yuuri sighs, but before he can begin again to explain, Victor's eyes widen. "Wait," he frowns, running his hands through his disheveled silver hair, "I just told you I'm a vigilante. Why aren't you more surprised?"

"I already knew."

It's dawning upon Victor, and Yuuri decides to dig his gaze into the breakfast tray instead. "Oh," breathes Victor, " _Oh._ "

"Yes."

"You – you know – you... that means, that means – someone-someone told you, someone... Phichit... Phichit told you? Is Phichit... Phichit is the Eros vigilante?"

" _What_? No, _no!_ " Yuuri is thrown aback at Victor's denial and whatever complicated logic Victor applied to arrive at this conclusion. "No, Victor," he says, no more calm, tears brimming to the surface, " _I am the Eros vigilante._ "

Victor doesn't speak, just stares blankly, like he didn't quite catch onto what he heard.

"I wanted to tell you for a while," Yuuri mumbles, still not able to garner the courage to look at Victor's face, "I – _ugh –_ well, things happened, and – I had this encounter with the Wanted Man and that put me to bed for two weeks _likeyoualreadyknow_ ," he pretends to not hear the consequent gasp from Victor, "and I thought of things then. I didn't know where it will land us if we both know each other's secret. And I was selfish, Victor. I'm sorry I was selfish. I didn't want to ruin this. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"The... the Wanted Man thing, what happened?" Victor asks. Yuuri stiffens, realising this is slipping into deeper and deeper shit by the moment. Victor is so caught up in his thoughts he doesn't remember that Eros already told him.

Yuuri can't help but notice the difference in the reactions. In any case, he decides to come clean. "The monster attacked me. Just like that. The police intervened and I found a manhole to escape or else I would've died."

"And... and why didn't you call for help? Why didn't you call me?"

"I wanted to. But the transceiver fell out of my mask. It wasn't a very good situation."

Victor goes quiet again, so Yuuri keeps the talk going, because this silence is the most dangerous silence of all. "I guess Eros would seem a little incapable to you now," he laughs bitterly, "but trust me, I was always him."

"It's not that."

Yuuri's insides twist at how dark Victor sounds. "Then what is it?"

"Never mind. I can't explain it."

"You can try, at least."

"Well then, the thing's that I love you, Yuuri. It's hard for me to come to terms with the fact that you could've died, and that there's no guarantee this won't happen again in the future."

"You were fine with it when I told you with the mask on!" Yuuri shouts, tears leaking and a vein bobbing at his temple.

"I don't know what to say. I – I need some time."

"For what?"

"To get my head around this. It's a lot to process."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he looks up, finds Victor's glassy eyes staring back, hurt at his words. "I understand what you're feeling. But guess what, Victor, I love you too. It's hard for me as well, to see you in danger. But I had to come to terms with it. Because that's what our lives are. It's better if you accept it, if not then we shouldn't continue this – _us._ If it's how it's gonna go then... let's end this."

* * *

"Celestino! _Celestino_!"

Either Celestino's wife is pregnant again and he's rushing to the hospital without a care for the world, or the bushy-haired professor – who's right now jumping down three steps a time down the escalator with the enthusiasm of a child – is deliberately ignoring Phichit's calls. Out of breath, Phichit stops running after the old man wondering if Yuuri's powers would've allowed him to slide right over the escalator, cartwheel in the air and drop right in front of that exit door.

When Celestino's grey broom-head disappears in the crowd Phichit turns to the office again, the big envelope under his arm. He only had a document to get approved by Celestino; if he'd got over with it he could've had the whole afternoon free.

To be honest, he just wants to go home and see Yuuri. He left him with Victor last night at the peak of their sexual tension, so even if they hadn't done anything last night (which makes sense given how drunk Yuuri was), they must've... _done the do_... in the morning. Or didn't they? He needs a first-hand account from Yuuri.

He's almost about to call Yuuri when his phone pings.

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 ** _wtf? did u hear?!_**

 _12:08_

Phichit screws his eyebrows. This must be the first text from Yuri Plisetsky he has ever received and he's not even sure what the boy is on about.

He would've asked, if the weirdest thing that day hadn't happened right then. There's a tap on his shoulder and as soon as he discovers who it is he jumps back a foot, his hand flinging to his mouth barely choking in a scream.

"Is something wrong, Phichit?" It's Celestino, smiling wide like this is the first meet of the day. Like he didn't just ignore Phichit and run down the escalator.

(And climbed back up...? Like he's playing some game of hide and seek? Phichit wonders if the professor drank up some chemical from the lab by mistake. He's usually not this crazy.)

"No, no. Nothing's wrong, professor. I actually thought you were busy. Seemed so a minute ago."

The phone pings again.

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 ** _they broke up?_**

 _12:14_

"Actually, I have a funny little story to tell you if you don't mind."

"Er..." Phichit grins nervously at Celestino, his head reeling. Who broke up? Yuuri and Victor? If Yuri is baiting him right now Phichit swears he's going to kill him.

In any case, Celestino takes it as the cue to continue. "A couple of weeks ago, I went to this flea market to sell my broken cane chair and holy, I just bumped into an _amico_! Russian man, wants to sell off a matryoshka at any price. Big deal, I thought, it's just a doll, why can't he throw it away? Until I saw inside and found an ounce of mergerinium."

"Mergerinium?" The wonder-element of biotechnology?

"Yes. Poor man thought he's stolen silver and freaked out. Didn't know it's worth in gold," Celestino laughs, "Anyhow, I kept it under wraps and sent a handwritten mail about its legal ownership, when last day I find out someone's broke into my lab. I almost assumed it must be my Russian _amico_ , finally realising what it was. But he takes my notebook instead, right beside the specimen. Last night's dinner was heavy and I'm almost feeling the pressure when _viola_ – the police arrives! Questioning and questioning and questioning... I spent the last hour in the bathroom. A break-in and explosive diarrhea on the same day – maybe I should let you all off today."

Phichit wonders if he looks like a Christmas Grinch, scrunching up his face so hard at the details of Celestino's personal life he wishes he'd never heard. "So that's why you ran down the escalator... I called after you, professor. I needed this document," he flips his file over and pulls out a couple of pages, "I needed it to get approved."

"Here, give me," Celestino takes a pen, "You must've seen someone else, my boy."

"Er, I'm certain it was you." Or any of his distant same-faced similarly built bushy-haired siblings.

"That can't be. I was in my cabin bathroom. Maybe you _should_ take the day off, Phichit. You and me, both. Very exhausted."

Celestino walks past, back to his office, and standing against the railing Phichit wonders if his brains have turned into some kind of grey, non-functioning gummy goo, because _this -_ whatever this was – was strange as fuck.

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 ** _stupid victor won't talk to me. where is katsudon_**

 _12:22_

 _To: Yuri Plisetsky_

 ** _He's probably at university. He's supposed to go to the café directly from there._**

 _12:23 Delivered_

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 ** _did you talk to him?_**

 _12:25_

 _To: Yuri Plisetsky_

 ** _I haven't but I will! Yuri maybe both of them need some alone time right now. It's better to let them be._**

 _12:26 Delivered_

He swipes away the messaging app and opens his call list. He shouldn't have arrived to the office in the first place. God knows how – _where –_ Yuuri is right now, and Phichit is low-key afraid – he knows how bad it gets for Yuuri. On top of it, it was Victor this time – _fuck Victor,_ he can't believe Victor did this out of all people. Phichit asked, _requested_ him to not break Yuuri's heart and yet he went ahead and did it. One word of confirmation from Yuuri and Victor's going to _pay._

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 ** _well im not letting them be because i know those dumbasses did something stupid again. im gonna catch hold of at least one of them just you wait_**

As much sense as Yuri makes, he wants to call Yuuri and get things cleared out. The call connects and he waits, hoping, praying he can get Yuuri to _talk_. Yuuri picks up, and Phichit heaves a sigh of relief at the first victory.

"Yuuri, Yuuri, where are you? Are you okay?"

He listens to Yuuri breathing, before he answers in a low, heavy voice, "Yes, I'm fine. I'm in college. I have lab work."

Suddenly Phichit doesn't know how to frame the words. "I heard about it, about you and Victor."

Yuuri's breath wavers when he hears Victor's name, Phichit knows how close Yuuri is to crying, so panicking, he buckles up for some damage control, rambling without thinking, "I'll give him a piece of my mind, Yuuri. I'm not letting him get away with this. How can he even – "

"It's not his fault –"

"Yuuri –"

"I hurt _him_ ," his voice breaks down into soft sobs, something he'd been trying to hold back, "I told him everything and then he was shocked, n-naturally. I didn't give him time to think it through, I – I panicked, and I... I got mad and I left. I don't know how I'm ever going to look him in the eye again."

"Oh, god," Phichit rubs the back of his head, he's confused but he wants to comfort his friend. It seems to be another big, fat misunderstanding. "Yuuri, do I need to come to the lab? Are you okay?"

"I – I'm fine," he hiccups, "I'll be leaving for the café from here."

"If there's anything, just talk to me, alright?"

"Yeah – yeah. Thank you, Phichit."

"Anytime, Yuuri. Listen, how about, um, we cook some chicken pad Thai for dinner?" He asks awkwardly, trying to cheer him and steering away from the elephant in the room, "Also, I'll tell you the freakiest thing that happened today. I mean, really freaky."

"Sounds great."

* * *

"Alright, party's over, boys."

It's evening and Yuuri's already communicated his location to Victor by the time he jumps onto the ledge close to the parking lot of the state hospital. It takes the two vandals off guard – _vandals_ , he doubts if that is all they are – scribbling the same message – _Happy New Year 1911,_ god, whatever the fuck that's supposed to mean – that's getting around all over the city.

One of them tries to run, but Yuuri leaps right on top of him, knocking him down. "You know the Titanic was launched in 1911, but I don't think that's what this is about," he sits tight, locking the man's arms behind his back. Stopping them isn't enough, Yuuri needs _information_. "Now talk. Spill it out, and you both go free."

The other one unexpectedly pulls out a gun; the muffler spills and turns out it's a woman, with a very steady hand. The way she's standing, she has to be a very good shot, studies Yuuri.

"If you know who I am, the gun's not gonna help you escape."

It doesn't help either way, as there's a streak of white from behind and the next moment the woman is pushed back to the wall, her arm stuck against the surface inside a block of ice.

Yuuri turns to find the Ice Guy; too bad he can't see the smile on Yuuri's face. Over-dramatic entry, but amazing timing. A split-second later it strikes him after all it's Victor, and they are at very awkward terms right now. Victor must be mad at him, and rightfully so. But casting their personal issues aside and putting the city on the priority list is what they have to do, now... and perhaps, forever.

"Thank you," Yuuri tells him anyway, heart bobbing in his throat.

"Pleasure," he replies, sincerely - or so Yuuri hopes – before he turns to the vandals. "You heard him," Victor's tone lowers, his eyes like cold blue slits, "Now spill."

Something happens next, and Victor seems to be the first to notice as he flinches back, "Eros, let go!"

Yuuri's confusedly glances back and forth; even under the mask Victor looks terrified as the man under his grip starts to have seizure; he crumbles to his knees as Yuuri lets him go – the man thumps to the floor spread-eagled. Eyes turned up and tongue out, foam dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. Dead.

"Cyanide," says Victor, huffing out a breath he didn't know he was holding, "I saw him roll a capsule from under his tongue. For all I knew it could've been some kind of bomb."

Yuuri turns at the other one stuck to the wall, but the woman's cracked her arm out of the ice block, her finger on the trigger. The man's death has unnerved everyone and suddenly Yuuri's senses are taking time to react – maybe too much as the gun fires and he does not – cannot – move; all he registers is a frantic " _Yuuri!_ " – and Victor jumping right in front of him.

Turns out the woman aimed it at her own head. Two suicides in a span of minutes, a mess of bodies and foam and brains and blood, and the fact that Yuuri froze again and Victor was going to take the bullet for him – everything sends his nerves into a complete breakdown. He's light-headed, weak on his knees, hardly breathing.

"Are you okay?" Victor asks concernedly, supporting him around the shoulders as he stumbles. Yuuri shakes his head.

"We should head back," Victor speaks again when Yuuri goes silent, uncertain. "My apartment?"

Yuuri would've protested, got mad, even shouted, but his throat is closing upon him. His heart rate's increasing, his chest feels constricted. He doubles over, pushing the button in his new helmet at the side of his neck. It comes off, and Yuuri takes in sharp, shallow breaths in open air – _god_ , it's like he's suddenly forgotten how to breathe...

"Yuuri," and suddenly he feels Victor rubbing his back. He doesn't remember if he has an anxiety attack in front of Victor before, in any case, he won't be surprised if Victor's panicking right now.

"Let's... let's get to your apartment," Yuuri manages to speak, unreasonable tears stinging at the corners of his eyes now; the staunch smell of blood suddenly makes him want to hurl the contents of his stomach, "Also... also tell Mila what happened here, and..."

Victor's competent, much more competent than he ever was in the past six months. He does what's needed; Yuuri forces his nerves to calm down, his eyes swimming with tears. He throws on Victor's jacket so that his black suit goes unnoticed before they get into a cab, sitting in silence – Yuuri trying to breathe unhinged, and Victor staring at him across the space, worried.

"Why did you jump in front of me?"

"Hmm?" Victor looks up from tending Makkachin, who began to nip at their feet as soon as they stepped in.

"Why did you jump in front of me? You know I can dodge bullets." _Because now that you know who I am, you think I'm incompetent. And it hurts all the more because I just proved it to be true._

"I don't know, it was instinct," Victor says, scratching Makkachin, almost like he's trying to dance around the subject not facing it.

"But _why_ ," Yuuri is practically seething, tears surfacing again, "if I'm weak out there I'll bear the brunt of it, not you."

"What is the matter with you?" Victor snaps. Finally.

"If I screw up out there, I die. You're not facing consequences for me," Yuuri knows it's his anxiety speaking, turning his muddled thoughts into nasty bile, but he can't stop himself. "I don't need your protection."

"I – I never thought you did," he replies, surprisingly calm. "I always thought you're strong. I jumped in front of you because I saw you freeze. If you had to dodge, you'd have been different. Your posture, everything told me... I can't really explain it. But I've watched you for a while and I got the feeling. I'm not out there to protect you. We are partners."

"I'm – I'm not good enough to be out there doing this," he mumbles to himself, _I'm not good enough for you either_ , _I'm only holding you back_ , "Maybe we shouldn't be partners."

"Alright, Yuuri, I got to put my foot down now. Please tell me what's going on in your head? Please. I can't read you all the time. We are great partners. Hell, we were too good, even when we were... us. What you told me in the morning came as a shock to me, but that's about it! I love you, and when I say I love you, I mean everything about you."

He can see Victor's eyes glistening against the yellow light of the bedroom. He reaches out to comfort Victor, but Victor shirks away, walking off, looking out through the window and even so barely able to hide the trail of tears dripping down his chin. He has never seen Victor _this_ upset before. He did this to Victor, and now Victor's falling apart. They both are.

"When I thought about it I realised on a level I already knew you're Eros. When I jumped in front of you, I wasn't thinking I _need_ to protect you. I just thought it rather be me than you. Because I love you. Why do you not get it?" Victor's voice cracks; it pierces into the room like broken glass.

If Yuuri has to make a list of the most painful things in the world, Victor crying would top it. It hurts him, it drills into heart like a white hot wire. He didn't want to make Victor cry, and now he doesn't want to continue this disastrous conversation, he just wants to say he's sorry, again and again, a million times over.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, slowly strutting up to Victor, wrapping his arms around his middle, his forehead touching the dip in his back.

"In the morning, I said I needed some time to process it. I _never_ said I wanted to break up! You jumped to conclusions, Yuuri. I asked, literally, for a few minutes. But you dressed up and left."

"I know, I'm sorry. I'm just... just so mad at myself. I had a hundred chances to tell you I was Eros and yet I held it back. I didn't want to break your trust. I liked that little facade because maybe... maybe I didn't want you to know how weak I am. I've been an ass, and I'm so, so sorry. I wanted to make sure you don't get hurt but in the end, I guess, I'm the one who hurt you. I'm so _sorry_."

"You're not weak, Yuuri," Victor whips around suddenly, only to pull him closer to his chest, "As a vigilante, I've never gone easy on you. You've handed my butt back to me quite a couple of times. So gently nudge the idea out of your head."

Victor accompanies it with jokingly knocking against Yuuri's head. Yuuri lets out a sad laugh, hugging him tighter. "I love you."

"You – you do?"

"Of course, I do. I'm sorry I did whatever I did today."

"If we love each other, then why aren't we together?"

Yuuri looks up in his eyes. They are wide, cautious, genuinely questioning. "I guess we should then. Now that you see what a mess I am, and if you still want to be with me –"

"You are the most beautiful mess. You made me fall in love with you, twice."

* * *

xxx

Yuuri doesn't remember when they started kissing.

Yuuri pushes him against the mattress further, his fingers entangled in his hair when he feels Victor's hand going flapping around his back, trying to find the zip of his superhero suit. "Right shoulder, zip goes diagonally down my back," Yuuri tells him in a hushed whisper, a hidden plea to not stop kissing, "and don't rip, I just mended it last night."

They have to break apart when Victor gives off something between a laugh and a huff of frustration.

"Turn around," he gets up, and Yuuri does, straddling him in a different manner now - rubbing his thighs against his, slowly, _teasingly_.

Victor finds the zip, pulls off, leaving a line of kisses on his bare back as the suit peels open. Yuuri bites his lip to keep back a whimper, his skin tingling and blood rushing down his groin. He feels Victor's silky hair grazing as Victor goes for his neck, kissing, occasionally nibbling – his way to the ear. His vision swims and his heart bobs out of control, his hips buckling unconsciously.

"I can't believe our first time is going to be my roleplay fantasy come true," Victor tells him in a breathy voice. Yuuri can't tell if he's joking or genuinely excited.

"Want to go into the touchy waters right now?" Yuuri flips on his lap again now that the suit is completely off, kissing him full on mouth.

"Does fighting with me make you horny? Then _yes_ , all the yesses."

Yuuri grins, "Does it make _you_ horny?"

"Oh, yes. Make-up sex is the best kind of sex. TV says it so it must be true."

They are perhaps laughing more than needed, but this rush is the best kind of Yuuri has ever felt. He looks into Victor's eyes, and sees him wanting him, and him _alone_ , with his nerdiness and their banter, the whole package. He can feel Victor's want to stay like this, skin against skin, cherishing their closeness over anything else. That reminds him – why is Victor still fully clothed? Yuuri gets to work, pulling off Victor's shirt and unbuttoning his pants, almost blindly as he makes sure to keep his mouth on him. Turns out Yuuri is a natural.

Suddenly he senses Victor's fingers around his waist. He stops to enjoy it; Victor's fingers trace up from his stomach to his chest, then pause at the nipples, circling then twisting them. Soon he feels Victor's mouth on one, sucking and grazing it with his teeth – and finally lets out the gasp he was holding back.

"You like it?"

"Yes," Yuuri manages to speak.

"So are you like... naked like that all the time under your suit?"

Victor asks so innocently it makes him giggle again. "No, you see," he strokes Victor's hair, "I usually wear balloon pants inside. Today is laundry day."

Yuuri's hand grabs Victor's hard length and Victor lets out a sound that Yuuri would never have believed belonged to Victor Nikiforov. His own length arching further every second, his hand strokes it – slowly gaining speed – until Victor's head is thrown back and he _begs_ – " _Please, please, yes... yes, ugh..." –_ until he comes in Yuuri's hand.

And then Yuuri pops a finger in his mouth and Victor collapses on the bed at the sight.

"You're going to be the death of me," Victor huffs for breath, as if he's just run a long marathon, "I think that made me come a second time."

Yuuri turns for a tissue to get his hands cleaned; he's enjoyed the show just as much, and the bitter taste of come in his mouth reminding him he's perhaps never done something as _bold_ in his entire life – it's almost like he's flipped a switch. Is _this_ the drunk switchflip everyone keeps talking about? By the time he's back, Victor's is sitting up again, ready to take charge.

"Sit back and let me return the favour."

He is pushed gently down onto the mattress as Victor starts planting kisses from his mouth to his nipples to his navel and then down to – _oh, no -_ " _Victor, agh –"_ he feels Victor grabbing the base of his cock, then Victor's tongue on his leaking tip. Yuuri thinks his body is on fire – until it's way _more_.

"Agh, Victor, _Victor –"_ It's a raspy, breathy gasp; frankly Yuuri is surprised he still _has_ a voice.

"You look so amazing right now, Yuuri," Victor stops to stare lovingly at Yuuri's pathetic state, before taking him in the mouth again, making him cry out desperate, indecipherable words of pleasure.

"Please, please don't stop –"

Victor builds up a pace, even as Yuuri's hand travels to the back of his head trying to sync their movements. His other hand gripping – and perhaps ripping – t he bedsheets, Yuuri cries out as he climaxes, as Victor helps him ride out his high, cheeks hollowing in and sucking as hard as he can.

Once the haze of ecstasy fades – just a little – he looks up at Victor, who seems satisfied, his eyes blue and shining, his lips pouted and throat bobbing.

Yuuri is horrified when he realises it. "Victor, did you just – you _didn't_!"

"Too late," Victor tells him in his sultry and yet goofy sing-song voice – it's an odd combination but it's perfect, at least for Yuuri. "I love you. All of you. Everything about you."

Yuuri pulls Victor on top of him even as a teardrop rolls down the corner of his eye. His pushes his chest against Victor's, makes sure he can feel Victor's heartbeat on his skin.

He is _never_ letting go of Victor now.

"And I love _you_."

xxx

* * *

"I think I'm gonna stay here tonight," Yuuri tells him, cozying up on the bed, his eyes casually searching around for a spare shirt. He finds one – a giant t-shirt with a Kermit the Frog print (one of Victor's unironical impulse buys), oversized for Victor so it dangles easily down Yuuri's shoulders. "Is it okay if I stay the night?"

Standing near the TV, Victor grins at him. "Do not tempt me. I will ask you to move in with me."

"I'm hungry. Let's order something?"

"Yuuri, did you talk to Yura about, you know, us, and what happened in the morning?"

"No, not really. When he called me I was upset and I didn't get back to him. I thought I'd have a talk with him in the café but he never came for his shift."

Victor stiffens, his brows furrowed as he gazes into his phone, as if trying to solve a puzzle. "He called me in the morning, I don't know why, he told me Otabek left for Russia. I was upset too but I didn't want to show it. I tried to politely ignore him but he figured it out, then demanded to know what happened. Then switched my phone off."

Then his voice wavers, "I have at least a dozen missed calls on my phone right now. And this text," he struts to the bed and hands the phone over.

 _From: Yuri Plisetsky_

 ** _Victor wherever you are just call me back_**

 ** _They are searching for you_**

 _18:30_

"Were you searching for me? And Phichit too I guess?"

"No," Yuuri replies, "I didn't talk to him at all so even if we were there's no way he'd know." His mind reels; who can possibly be searching for Victor? Phichit won't do it – he doesn't know about the patch-up yet but he knows how sad Yuuri was, and there's no way he'd find an elaborate prank in this situation. Is it Yura? Is it just one of his oddly agressive but well-meaning ways to get Yuuri and Victor talking? Or – "I'm calling him," he clicks on his number, the dial tune making his insides lurch in suspense, "He might be in trouble."

Then the doorbell rings and the phone drops to the bed, forgotten.

"Who do you think –"

"Alright, calm down, Yuuri. We just go to the door as a normal couple having a night in. Deep breaths, calm down."

Yuuri pulls open the wardrobe and picks up a pair of pyjamas, pushing his black suit under the bed with his foot, before he trots to the door with Victor. His arms are stretched and his impulses are ready, there's a back-up plan in his head if it turns out to be an attacker.

"It's the police," Victor whispers as he looks through the peephole. He then pulls the door open, giving them a smile, "Good evening, officers. How can we help you?"

"Put your hands at the back of your head."

Yuuri backtracks when he sees it; it is as if the two policemen at the doors are just decoys – the hallway is crowded with a whole troop of police force, with bulletproof vests and guns at the go, as if they've been chasing a high-profile criminal. Yuuri wanted to knock the guns out of their hands, but it's not a viable solution – they are unmasked, and in a building full of civilians. He feels a light squeeze from Victor; he's advising against it too.

The two policemen proceed to slam handcuffs on Victor. Victor complies but Yuuri panics, blocking their way. "No, _no –_ what are you doing?!"

"If you don't step out of the way, we'll have to arrest you as well."

He steals a glance at Victor – he's shaking his head, why is he still telling Yuuri not to _do_ anything? Yuuri can take on a dozen of armed policemen – it's not that hard, _maybe._ He'll do it for Victor. Why is Victor accepting this – what is _even_ going on? If he's arrested for being a vigilante, why not Yuuri?

"No, _stop, stop right there_ ," Yuuri trails after them, like a civilian, struggling against his impulses to not turn the hallway into a warzone, mask or not. "Why are you taking him!?"

"Mr. Nikiforov is arrested under charges of murder."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

Victor is confused as hell and his nerves are so jittery they have begun to numb. He leans against the scratched-up wall of the police lock-up, inwardly groaning at the stink in the corners. They have been going through the official procedures over the last hour, frisking him for hidden weapons, taking mugshots, casting dirty glances. His body is still reeling with discomfort from the gross manhandling.

They told him it's a murder case. They didn't say much though, taking his questions for obvious smugness. Regardless, he has managed to keep his cool. He can still hear the buzz of reporters outside; occasionally one of them succeeds in leaking past the police barrier and takes his picture. Victor feels tired, of the accusations and the suspense and the gawking – like he's an act on the stage for the world to lap up. And to think earlier in the evening he was with Yuuri...

Yuuri. Oh, god, right. He's also Eros. Victor never got enough time to process it, and even if he did, he could never process it enough. Yuuri must be panicking. Victor can only hope he doesn't attempt something drastic – like _jailbreak_ – that would turn both vigilantes into fugitives and throw Yuuri under the police radar.

"So you the celeb doll with all that buzz?"

Victor doesn't address it. He has been trapped in here with ten other people, and it isn't the first thing he has overheard about himself.

"Hey, roller-skating Victor, I'm talking to you."

He feels someone behind him, touching his arm. A nerve of annoyance twinges at his temple. It takes all his strength to not turn around lest he turns the precinct into a big chunk of ice. "A stuck-up bitch then, huh?" the man sneers, running his fingers up and down Victor's arm, "I heard you shot the faces off some folks. Lord I wish we get the same prison. Pretty face and I uh gonna have some real fun –"

Victor hopes the crunch was loud enough to send a message when he whips around and traps the man's arm behind his back. The man screams out in pain, trying to wriggle out of Victor's grasp like a fish caught on a hook – while others look on, some even cheering.

"Dare speak to me again and I'll break that arm off, shove it up your anus and pull it out of your mouth."

Victor twists the arm emotionlessly, even as a crowd surrounds them and cheers louder. The man cries, "Let go, you slimy son of a bitch –"

"Hey, cut it out – what's going on in there?"

Victor hears the clinking of the lock and the door pulled open, and he knows an officer must've arrived to disperse the crowd. He lets go and turns to his corner again, as the man scuttles out of his vision cursing under his breath, pointing accusingly, "He broke my arm!"

"I only sprained it," Victor shrugs nonchalantly at the officer.

"Mr. Nikiforov, you need to come with me."

What? Is he going to be punished for a lock-up brawl now? Is being falsely framed for murder not enough? Victor glares, but silently cooperates. The officer handcuffs him and they briskly trot into the narrow hallway that leads to a dimly-lit room. There is a table and two chairs in the middle; he stares at his own ragged reflection on the two-way mirror as he's seated. He watches Mila pass by – she casts him a worried glance but doesn't talk. Then the door opens and the detective in-charge walks in, and of course, _of fucking course_ – it has to be JJ Leroy.

If this case has anything to do about him being a vigilante, he can already kiss his freedom goodbye. Something tells him it's not. He needs to keep his guard up regardless – and if it indeed treads that way – he needs to keep Yuuri's identity safe.

This is going to be an episode of intimidation and manipulation. Victor stares deep into the table; he decides not to talk unless he really, really requires to.

JJ Leroy thumps into the chair opposite him. Loud, boisterous, just like he remembers. Victor winces but doesn't look.

"Mr. Nikiforov, do you remember what you were doing at 7:10 this evening?"

It was around the time he and Yuuri returned to his apartment, not talking to each other. Then they had an argument, a big one, the details of which he certainly can't tell the police. Then they made up and kissed. Victor knows that right now he's at full liberty to not answer whichever question he chooses to – should he speak – should he _not_ speak –

"I was spending time with my boyfriend in my apartment." He replies curtly.

"Your boyfriend," JJ double-checks, "his name is Yuuri Katsuki, correct?" – a pang of dread shoots through Victor's heart at the mention of Yuuri, he's already done fucked up hasn't he, he's involved Yuuri in this – "He seemed like a nice fella to me. He waited outside the precinct for the last hour demanding to see you until we told him it's pointless unless he arranges for an attorney and a bail order. Do you really want to do this, Mr. Nikiforov?"

Victor looks up, his forehead clammy with sweat. _Do what?_

JJ smirks when he notices the change in expression, like he has finally discovered Victor's weakness. "Well, well. If Mr. Katsuki is your alibi, and you're proven guilty, it would make him a participant in your crime. Instead of making him suffer, why don't you confess it upfront?"

Victor senses his fingertips sparking under the table, freezing it from below. The steel handcuffs are already as cold as they are. He takes in a deep breath to keep his powers in check. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm going to be straightforward with you, Mr. Nikiforov. You were seen shooting two people, male and female, near Michigan Avenue by an officer and his civilian assistant. That's two witnesses, Victor. The officer was me. Then you escaped the scene of crime and misled us until we found you in your apartment. Does that jog your memory? The bodies were found beside those cultish scribbles. What's _1911_? What's it all about?!"

There's no doubt they caught the wrong person but – _wait_ – what the fuck is JJ saying? Victor and Yuuri _were_ indeed there at Michigan Avenue; they had confronted those two and the criminals had committed suicide _on their own accord._ No one _shot_ them, no one else _was_ there – except the vigilantes. Is JJ lying to make Victor confess his secret identity – or is this some giant booby trap – some weird cult conspiracy Victor is unsuspectingly caught up in?

It doesn't matter. Because Victor has to bite it down. He can't say a word of what _really_ happened. Because Victor Nikiforov was never there. He saw nothing. He was at his apartment with his boyfriend Yuuri Katsuki, doing simple civilian things, living a simple civilian life.

"I - "

There's a resonating _clang_ and the door bursts open. It's a policewoman, who marches in and hands a phone to JJ. "There's a call for Victor Nikiforov. It's his attorney."

JJ places the phone against his ear, his eyes never leaving Victor. He listens without a word, then slides the phone over, "They want to speak to you."

Victor picks it awkwardly what with his hands cuffed in steel, hoping for a monotone at the other end – or if he's blessed enough – maybe Yuuri from the sidelines. "Yes?"

" _Jesus Christ_ , Vitya, did you speak to those policemen?! Don't tell me you are stupid enough to talk without even consulting a lawyer first?! I let you get out of my sight for a few months and you end up in prison?! You don't even call me?! DO YOU WANT TO GIVE THIS OLD MAN A _HEART ATTACK_!?"

"Yakov?" Victor's surprised and warmed, "How've you been?"

His old coach's tone doesn't falter. "Shut up. You are very lucky I was on a trip to New York. I've booked a flight. I'll be there in a couple of hours. Meanwhile I have a lawyer on the line for you. You're going to talk to him. He's on his way to the police precinct. He's going to get you a bail. Don't talk to the police until you talk to him!"

" _Spasibo_ , Yakov."

"Whatever. And to think you'd be sitting ducks in jail if I hadn't turned on the hotel TV!"

* * *

 ** _Twenty-two_ ****_hours ago_ **

"The sky is pretty tonight, don't you think?"

"Huh?" Yuri breaks out of his trance. "Yeah, yeah. Bitch-ass beauty."

He is still trying to wrap his head around the surprise party – especially around Victor's gift. How Victor pulled him to a side and gave him an offer – an offer to coach him into mainstream figure skating again. He told Yuri he could train him right here – at the Detroit Skating Club – or at St. Petersburg – whichever suits him ( _Detroit, Detroit of course, Yuri can't imagine leaving now),_ and he could start over his life again. It all felt... too good to be true.

"I'm really sorry I pressed you about your past," Otabek starts awkwardly. They've been sitting on this old ledge of an abandoned building not too far from the airport. They've been holding hands. They still have an hour before Otabek has to leave.

"It's fine," he assures him. Worse happened this morning and he'd have told Otabek if Katsudon wasn't involved, and _that_ would've stolen the thunder anyway.

"– And now I'm leaving you behind in this city. I feel so bad, Yuri, but I don't have a choice – it shouldn't be a very long trip –"

"I told you, I got people who'd watch my back. There's nothing to worry," and then he looks glum, because he is about to tease a topic which has been playing on a loop in his head for a while now. "When I was with the mafia, I never thought my life would get better. And definitely didn't think it'd get _this_ better. I cannot thank you enough, Otabek. You've changed my life. But... but my past has been cornering me and when I look at now - I - I don't know – everything feels too fragile. I feel I'm too cold and broken to be loved. I - I need some time, Beka, I need time to heal, to be normal again. Until then, I feel like we should keep the labels off our relationship." He chuckles as an afterthought, "If I'm a boyfriend now, I'll be a really _baaaad_ one."

His heart flips when he glances at Otabek – who seems sad, concerned – staring off into the distance. Did Yuri disappoint him?

"You think you're too cold to be loved – that's funny. When I first saw you at the interrogation table, I thought you were like fire. Brilliant, blazing fire. A spirit that can't be crushed, no matter what. You had the eyes of a soldier." They're still holding hands, and he caresses Yuri's softly with his thumb; then he smiles. "I'm your friend before anything else, Yuri. Our friendship isn't about condition. It's about comfort. If you want me to be just a friend, I'll be that. If you want me to be just a roommate, I'll be that. You don't have to feel one bit guilty about it. We'll still be the same."

Yuri wraps his free arm around himself, warm in his chest. "You know, you're the most badass best friend. So, if it's okay to ask, what's your deal with St. Petersburg?"

Otabek sighs. It is a touchy subject, maybe. Yuri wonders if they should talk about something else. It's less than half hour now, after which they won't be seeing each other for weeks...

"It's about that Wanted Man and the cryptic graffiti case. I thought if it's possible to trace it back to where it all began – so I'm gonna see if the Bratva is anyhow involved or if something happened in 1911 or if it's some kind of code... whatever it is." He hesitates. "I... I didn't want to mention Russia too much because it brought you... bad memories."

"Makes sense," Yuri hums, "So when will you be back?"

"I'll try wrapping it up in a week or so. Two weeks, max. I hope."

They leave for the airport soon. Otabek hands him the keys to his bike, "Try avoiding the highway, since you don't have a driving license." Yuri smirks, "You better be worrying about yourself, Beka. Russia's fucking cold. Try not to die."

"I will."

"Good."

It's quite past midnight when Yuri reaches home, his heart sinking. The apartment suddenly seems too hollow and big for one person. He collapses on the couch; it's been a bittersweet day – less on the sweet, more on the bitter, maybe. He reaches out for the refrigerator; there's a couple of beers. No one allowed him to drink at his own party earlier in the evening. He might as well drink now, and make sense of the day – and think about a new future, of a doomed relationship, and people who weren't who he thought they were, perhaps in a good way.

He passes out before he could go for a second.

Naturally, he wakes up with a terrible headache the next morning. He rubs his groggy eyes and flits into panic mode when he finds the beer from the unfinished can has spilled over and soaked into the carpet. It hasn't been one day and the apartment's turning into a garbage bin. He rolls and sets it aside for dry-cleaning, then falls back on the couch. Everything still feels rancid, bitter, sour – every odd undesirable taste.

Distracting himself seems like a nice idea. It's 8:30 a.m., and he'd leave for the café soon, and forget the void in his chest. He needs to pass twenty minutes. Somehow. He could call victor; he wanted to genuinely thank him for his coaching offer and there wasn't a scope of such last night – at first Yuri himself was way too stunned to react, and soon enough Victor and Katsudon got drunk and began making bedroom eyes at each other... _god,_ the second-hand embarrassment of it all, Yuri shudders.

It takes Victor ages to pick up the call, and when he finally does, it is with a less-than-enthusiastic "Yeah."

"Fucking finally," Yuri berates him loudly, "Now if you're done kissing your boyfriend, I have something important to talk to you about. I don't do this often, so listen very carefully. And never ask me to say it again."

There is no follow-up comeback, no playful jibe from Victor, and Yuri feels odd. _Please don't tell me I called in the middle of their morning sex or something._ "So Otabek left for St. Petersburg and I was thinking... well, what _are_ you doing, by the way?" He asks to be sure.

"This is not a good time, Yura." Victor's voice is low and raspy. That's not a sex voice. That's just a really _really_ sad voice. It's like he's been crying – or wanting to cry – or something close.

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I just don't feel good. I'll call you later."

"Don't dare fucking hang up on me!" he screams into the phone, "Tell me what happened! This has something to do with that Katsudon, isn't it? Don't you fucking lie."

"I..." Victor trails off with a sigh, "I don't know. We had a fight and I think... I think we're not together anymore."

It doesn't make any sense. They are embarrassingly in love. Anyone who was there last night could tell. They can't just break up over every stupid argument, _what are they, twelve_? He shouts again. "What? What do you mean?! Why?!"

"I can't tell you. I'll call you later."

"Victor, wait –"

Victor hangs up inconsiderately. Yuri tries again, fuming. _Dial tone, dial tone..._ then voicemail. He leaves an angry message demanding him to call him back right now. Damn, does Victor know how to ruin the mood. Yuri doesn't want to do the whole thank-you thing anymore. _Ugh_. He tries a while later but Victor has switched off his phone at this point.

Yuri wants to scream into the pillow, and he isn't totally sure why. A small sane voice in his head tells him he probably shouldn't meddle, but this weird loud noise at the back overwhelms all reason and keeps screaming _what the fuck._ The two dickheads just got together after a century of dancing around the fact that they're in love, and they _can't_ break up now. What caused this? Did Katsudon drunken-babble out his secret?

If Victor's switched off his phone, there's no use even _trying_ to call Katsudon (he prefers to text, he's always sleeping at odd times and low-key believes if the call is urgent enough a person would call twice; Victor is the talkative, social one, and all of this is one big disaster).

Yuri tries nonetheless, and gets what he expects. Then he texts Phichit out of desperation – who too sounds reasonably calm, or maybe they just don't know each other that well. So he decides to confront him straightaway at the coffee shop.

Even that plan is unwittingly thwarted by a giant toad.

Yuri isn't even kidding. Giant toad, that's exactly what this guy is. Jeans Jacket Leroy. Or something close. He saw it in the paper.

"Look, kiddo. I don't like this either. But you're under witness protection and can't be left unsupervised. In return, ya can assist me. And ya can call me JJ."

Yuri feels like he already had a terrible day and a bird shat on him on his way back home, and it's not even 10 a.m.. He glares at the officer's wide white grin on that _punchable_ face. None of what JJ said is a choice. Yuri has to comply, or else he'll be on house arrest or something.

"Ladies first," JJ bombastically jeers, ushering Yuri to the back seat of the undercover car.

"You feeling _man enough_ now?" Yuri shoots back. JJ doesn't talk for the rest of the drive.

He drives towards the outskirts of the city. Yuri feels familiar; about half a year ago he used to peddle meth in the darker alleys around the nightclubs and rest stops. Further down this road, there's a small massage salon the mafia owns as a front for money laundering. Two streets down there's their regular meeting hub. Although he doubts if that's still open; they never settle at one place for too long.

JJ parks the car around the corner, then sets up a photography kit; they are in clear sight of an unfinished three-storeyed building. "This building started construction five years ago. Two years ago, the owner died and the construction stalled. There've been reports of weird odours from the building but we never investigated. Weirder part is, there's been a hush-hush that the owner's ghost has been sighted walking into the building a few days ago."

"Alright," Yuri snaps, "so in conclusion, I never asked for your boring-ass story, and what are we doing here, ghost hunting?! In broad daylight?"

"How does Otabek tolerate you?"

"How does _anyone_ tolerate you?!"

They spend the next three hours in near silence, with JJ _tsking_ and Yuri groaning his soul out. The camera idea is an impending, boring disaster; no one of interest passes through this deserted neighbourhood, let alone the ghost of a man. Yuri is lying in the backseat, hands behind his head and feet up on the window when he notices JJ preparing his gear and guns. "There's no harm in checking out an empty building, is it," JJ says to no one in particular.

"None, except this time I might actually die of boredom."

"Oh ya will, sonny boy. You're gonna stay in the car. I'm gonna handcuff you."

"Fuck you," Yuri snaps, staring daggers, "I'll bite my way through that steel shit and you _know_ I will do it."

* * *

"Pissing your pants already, Jojo?"

Yuri would be lying if he said he wasn't spooked a bit. In any case, that elicits another annoyed grunt out of JJ as they tiptoe their way through the empty hallway-ish area (it's meant to be a hallway, but is incompletely built, splattered with bright sunlight and damp darkness). "That reminds me," says JJ, glancing back, his gun on the go, "you need to sign a form."

"About what?"

"That if you die here, it isn't one percent my fucking responsibility."

Yuri sneers. "Don't worry about that. If I die here, I'm sure you'd chase down my ghost to sign that form, won't you? It's what you do best. Detroit police wasting civilian tax money hunting poltergeists. It's their favourite pastime –"

" _Shhh_ ," JJ blocks the way ahead, pushing them both behind the pillar, "I hear a sound." They hold their breaths for a while, wanting nothing to obscure whatever sound JJ just heard. Yuri isn't sure but there does seem a faint _clink_ _clink_ _clink_ coming from where the path turns right...

"Stay here," JJ orders him. Yuri pulls up his middle finger, but complies.

Then the officer disappears from sight, leaving Yuri unarmed in the middle of a haunted hallway. Yuri sighs; this could've been so much more fun if it were Otabek. Or even Katsudon, or Victor. There's a new sound this time – a certain _schlick_ _schlick_ – like the dragging of metal against floor. Yuri feels nervous; maybe it's just the birds. Or maybe it's JJ moonwalking his way through the empty rooms.

Sweat clamming up his forehead, he decides to check. Two-four steps to the right leads to a new room – a big banquet room – the eerie amount of empty space makes his inside rumble. Another room connects to it. He could smell a sort of stink now – it's not organic, it smells like a mix of incompatible chemicals. Yuri is legitimately scared now.

Even so, he pushes the door open.

The sight is almost surreal.

It's the Wanted Man.

Yuri is supposed to run – or scream – or do _something_ , but he freezes in his spot. This is scarier than the time the mafia guy threatened to put a bullet in his knee. He should get his phone out and alert JJ but his nerve impulses are short-circuiting, never quite reaching his limbs.

It's like staring in the face of a tattered, wounded lion. The Man hasn't spotted him yet, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall. The Man seems exhausted; a strange whirring noise erupting every time he wheezes for breath. He – of course – has an eye missing; there are wires peeking out of his damaged eye-socket, mangled with half-healed flesh. His right arm, too, is broken and useless, the metal joint dangling by a stray wire.

Until Yuri is spotted, he can evaluate his options. Screaming isn't a good one. He won't be able to outrun the Man. This Man almost killed Yuuri, and Yuuri is much stronger, faster than he (or any average human, for that matter) can ever be –

There's a noise of movement – footsteps? - no, it's that old _schlick_ _schlick_ _schlick_ – "Please find me, JJ," Yuri whispers, _prays_ to himself, barely managing to hide behind that flimsy door. He checks again – and forgets to breathe. The Man is staring at him, looking him in the eye, right into his soul.

" _Pomo..._ _gi_ _.._ _te_ _mny_ _..e.._ "

Did the Man just speak Russian? Did he just – _ask for help_?

The cry for help clenches at Yuri's heart. He walks out of his hiding spot – _bad decision, bad decision, this is a trap, this has to be_ – and takes a step ahead. The Man looks like he barely registered anything; his good eye sleepily blinks. "Nat... Natsya?"

Yuri's eyes widen. _They used children for experiments_. Is he, is the Man – "Dimitriy?"

The Man reacts to that name. He seems more aware now, trying to focus his attention on the small, human figure before him. His good eye is wide open, alert. "Yuri... Yuri?"

" _GET_ _DOWN_!"

Yuri dives to the floor without thinking, arms shielding his head. JJ is here now; he shoots at The Wanted Man – _Dimitr_ _i_ _y_ _–_ who is aware of the sudden incoming threat. Dimitriy scrambles to his feet – stumbles, as if he's disoriented – the bullet grazes him but doesn't do any significant damage. He escapes into the backdoor even as JJ chases him. Yuri follows them on instinct.

"Get to the car!" JJ yells at him, flinging the keys over, "And call back-up!"

"Look out!" Yuri screams before anything else registers; he catches a phantom passing through the door behind JJ. There are more people here. He feels a sudden shove – JJ 9 pushed them both behind the wall, and it was a good call – the next second there's a rain of bullets. JJ peeks his head out to check, and colour drains out of his face.

"Who was that?!" Yuri asks him breathlessly.

Instead of answering, JJ crawls on his knees to the nearest window, watching: Yuri can hear the faint screech of tyres. The rain of bullets begins again, which means whoever it was left the armed person behind to finish them off. "We have to run. Now."

As egotistical and annoying as JJ is, he knows darn well how to do his job. He strategizes an escape fast – there are bullets flying fast even as they race to their car. Yuri glances through the window pane as soon as he gets into the back seat: it's an old man. Yuri never expected an old man. Strangely agile, though. " _Who_ is that guy?" Yuri screams to no-one in particular, even as his face smacks into the front seat thanks to JJ's bull-headed driving.

"It's Simon Hoffman."

"Who's Simon Hoffman?"

JJ picks up a photograph near the steering wheel and throws it at Yuri. It's the same old man, albeit with a kinder, less threatening vibe. "The dead owner."

" _What?_ "

"That's the truck, that's the one that escaped," JJ speaks, going way over the speed limit as he locates. The city area is approaching, and it's going to be difficult to chase it down the crowded roads if he doesn't do it soon...

" _Active shooter at Michigan Avenue. Anyone close by, report there immediately. It's priority."_

"We're almost at Michigan Avenue," Yuri replies. With a furious grunt, JJ launches the brakes and takes a hard left, abandoning the chase. " _Motherfuckers."_ The mini-trucks begins to dissolve out of vision.

They're at the instructed location, almost. There're no police yet; this time, JJ doesn't hesitate locking Yuri inside the car. Face smushed against the window pane, he tries to make sense of the situation. A line of cult graffiti etched across the walls of the stores – that _Happy New Year_ thing, a distant noise of JJ screaming " _Freeze!_ ", a mixed stench of blood and burnt gun powder, and a man with a gun.

* * *

 ** _August 13, 2017, Present time_ **

"Then he turned and I saw his face. It was Victor. There were sounds of more gunshots – and I don't know – he escaped, and I was so confused because this was inconceivable... but the face is burnt into my memory. It was him."

"But that makes no sense."

"I know. I _know._ It was unlike him, everything about it – and I just stopped thinking. I think my brain stopped functioning. I saw a ghost of a dead man, and I saw my friend's become a monster, and now I saw _Victor_ killing people – that, _that_ was just the final straw. I feel like I'm going _fucking_ insane."

There is a lingering silence in the room after Yuri finishes his story. Phichit is somewhere between concerned and confused, and Yuuri just wants to hide away from the world.

It's bright, early morning. It's been more than four hours that they took Victor, and he hadn't been even a bit of a help. Yuuri's knees tremble, even as he brings them closer to himself, crouching against the wall. He's made a mess of himself at the police precinct, screaming, crying. They asked him to get an attorney. Bail orders. Legalities. Appointments. He doesn't know much about any of this. Where is he supposed to start?

"I'm not going to testify against Victor," Yuri says, looking markedly at Yuuri.

"Why not?" Yuuri snaps bluntly, and Yuri's eyes widen. Yuuri clarifies, "I mean, that's technically lying. What if they take away your immunity?"

"I don't care!" Yuri sways with emotion, his eyes burning with tears, "There was something wrong about it. That wasn't Victor. It couldn't have been!"

Yuuri feels drained. It's almost like he still hasn't fully grasped the reality of the situation. His head is floating with a list of attorneys. Who'd be the best for Victor? Should he involve other people? Who is Victor's legal guardian? What's the fees? Yuuri has his student loan at disposal. He'd spend it in a blink, but what are the legalities of doing that? The time is slipping. He sighs, nonetheless.

"Victor and I were there earlier that evening at Michigan avenue, as vigilantes." Yuuri sees the question forming in Yuri's mouth; he nods: _Yes, Victor is the other vigilante._ "We nabbed them making cult graffiti. They tried to attack us but when they failed, they committed suicide. In front of our eyes. We returned to Victor's apartment. Much later we saw your text and then what happened, happened."

"Wait - but," Phichit interrupts, "um, does that mean what Yuri saw this _Victor_ doing - was he basically shooting people who were already dead?"

"Yes," Yuuri says, cathartic, "That, and the fact that Victor can't be at two places at the same time."

"But – why – why would someone –"

"It was a distraction," Yuri realises, "probably. It was to distract us from chasing the mini truck. It had Dimitriy, and we almost caught it."

"But – but - but," Phichit flails his arms about, "how come they get an exact doppelganger in this limited time, and – _g_ _a_ _h_ , this is ridiculous! How are we going to get Victor out of this? At least we can prove they killed themselves. We can, right?"

"Wait a minute," Yuri utters slowly, as if he is trying to comprehend every word he says, "this guy... this ghost of a guy. The man died two years ago. Positively. I mean, there can't be an _actual_ ghost, so he too must have a doppelganger."

"Is this what they're experimenting on now? Creating doppelgangers?"

"No, but what if, what if it's one person? This ghost guy shot at us. He was left behind to kill us. We were too busy chasing Dimitriy and he must've had a hell of time in his hands. What if this person is some kind of... _shape-shifter_?"

"You're getting ahead of yourselves," Yuuri comments emotionlessly, "We don't have time for this." He walks across the room and picks his jacket, "I'm going to look for an attorney."

"Oh, c'mon, Katsudon, what's the matter with you? Getting ahead of ourselves, really?" Yuri barks, "You're some super-fast super agile weirdo, Victor can make ice explosions, there's a giant _mecha_ man roaming in the city! Is a shape-shifter that far-fetched? It's why the police can't track them, they're taking other people's identities. It's fucking genius if it's true. Also, Dimitriy had a sister, he called for her. Maybe she's alive, maybe she's –"

"This is not the time, I'm begging you."

Phichit speaks in between, sensing the heat, "Where are you going though? I have a friend in law, maybe we can –"

"I _can't_!" Yuuri snaps, finally. Tears break free again, dribbling down his cheeks, "I can't sit here doing nothing. I can't sit framing _wild_ theories while Victor is in prison for something I _know_ he didn't do! I can't!"

"Yuuri," he senses Phichit's hand on his shoulder as his vision blurs and breath wavers, and he restrains himself with all his strength from jerking it away. He pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes against his sleeve. He can't break now, he has _so much_ to do. His phone buzzes in his pocket. An unknown number. His insides churn uncomfortably. "Hello?"

"It's me. It's _me._ I got out. Yakov got me out. There's some procedures and stuff left but I'll see you in a few hours. Yuuri?"

He doesn't expect Victor's voice. Relief washes over him so hard he almost crumbles to the floor.

* * *

Yuuri sits at the corner of the bed, fingers carelessly combing through Makkachin's fur. Victor's apartment is so big and hollow that his chest bobs in anxiety every time he hears loud voices from the other room. Victor returned to the flat around the evening with his old coach. Soon Phichit and Yuri left (Yuuri apologised to him and promised he'd consider Yuri's theory seriously, because anyway, _time is slipping_ ). As of now, Victor has been scolded since the last hour, and coach Yakov – who side-eyed and glared at Yuuri and didn't even bother asking his name – already hates his guts. Yakov must think Yuuri is the source of all the trouble.

Yakov is perhaps right.

Yuuri doesn't want the idea to stress him. Yakov might care deeply about Victor, but he doesn't _know_ Yuuri. He's not allowed to judge Yuuri's relationship with Victor.

However, when all of this is over, Yakov might want to take Victor back to Russia with him, and Yuuri would... relent. It sounds like the best choice, which means – they've only got so much time together. He'd rather not talk about it to him though; only last day he wore Victor down with his _I-am-Eros-is-me_ bullshit. He'd be what Victor needs him to be. For now, at least.

"Hey."

Victor looks so exhausted it hurts. Strands of his hair sticking up at odd angles, bags under his yearning, sad eyes. Yuuri noticed the hardened look Victor carried with him after he was released on bail – as if the blue of his eyes has frozen into something cold and distant. So Yuuri decided not to prod him.

Right now, under the yellow of the lamp, Victor seems fragile again.

Neither of them has slept since the last thirty-six hours. Victor walks up to the bed and slowly sinks into the mattress. Yuuri watches him from his side – guilt churning in his stomach – not knowing what to do or say – _how to comfort_ -

"You should sleep, Victor," he says, uneasy about teasing the hot subject. They need to talk about the shape-shifter theory, but right now, they are just too tired.

"I can't. I'm not sleepy."

Yuuri doesn't want to pressure him, but Victor needs to sleep. The rate he's going, he'll soon hurt himself if he doesn't rest.

"Maybe I can bore you to sleep." Yuuri tries innocuously.

Victor laughs at that – even if his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"You don't have to be like that with me, you know," Yuuri tells him, more solemnly this time. Victor looks confused as he continues, pointing at his own face, "You know, the thing. The thing you do with your face when you pretend you're okay. When you smile without feeling like it. It's okay not to feel okay, Victor. You aren't alone in this."

That's all the cue Victor needed. His expression falls, and he practically leaps into Yuuri's arms. Yuuri wraps his arms around him as tight as he can, caressing his hair while he digs his face into Yuuri's shoulder. "The police looked at me like I was scum," Victor says, his breath wavering, "It was gross. It was humiliating."

"I'm sorry this happened to you, Victor," Yuuri whispered, desperately trying to hold Victor from spiralling out of his mind, "It wasn't your fault."

He feels Victor shaking, his fists clutching handfuls of Yuuri's sweatshirt. "When the police told me I'd get you into trouble, it felt like a warning. Whoever did this – for whatever reason – whoever's after me is probably after you too and I just – I don't know how to stop it, I don't know who to fight –"

"We have each other. We'll protect each other. I'm not scared of anything if I'm with you."

"We have each other," Victor repeats, more to assure himself than anyone else. He looks up; he isn't crying but his eyes are red from exhaustion, tinged with fear. Then he smiles – it's the bleak, cheerless kind – but at least it's real.

They kiss like there's no tomorrow. For all they know, there _really_ might not be one.

Suddenly, Victor breaks apart and says, "I have a silly question."

"Okay..."

"I was in the lock-up and I had nothing to do," he continues, playing with Yuuri's fingers, "I was thinking back at the times when we didn't know our identities... when I didn't know you were _you_. I just wondered, why did you reject me if I was just being _me_?"

Yuuri smiles, because it's not a hard one to answer. "Were you?" he asks teasingly, cocking his brow.

Victor is slightly taken aback. "Was I what?"

"Being yourself?" Yuuri kisses him on the chin; Victor laughs, and then cries out in a mock-accusatory tone, "I was! _Yuuuuri_."

"Ice Daddy? Really?"

Victor sinks into the curve of Yuuri's neck, embarrassedly mumbling, "Now I may have made some mistakes..."

"You were trying so _hard_ to look cool," Yuuri giggles, still teasing.

"Pun intended?"

"Pun intended."

"It was literally your TV persona, just without your name, Victor," he gently combs through Victor's hair (who is practically shrinking from embarrassment by the minute), "It's not that I dislike it, not really. But I had fallen too deep with the other Victor back then – you know, the one that was sprawled out on the couch having a bad day and who cleaned the apartment with me and called it a friend-date. You know, the one who talked me through my freak-outs and wanted to be my first customer. So I closed off all other possibilities."

Victor stares at him, soft. It's like he wants to say a million things, but doesn't have the right words. Victor, out of all people, is running out of words.

"That's smart... real smart," this time Victor is the one teasing; he tickles Yuuri and they both fall back onto the bed, giggling, "My Yuuri is the smartest." He's undoing the buttons of Yuuri's shirt one by one, even as Yuuri cocks an eyebrow, "You are supposed to go to sleep."

"I will," Victor's done by now, pulling the shirt away from Yuuri's chest. Yuuri blushes a bit when he finds Victor's eyes fixated on it – he wonders what's going on in Victor's head – and blushes some more; but Victor's too tired to do anything tonight, he simply crashes on Yuuri's chest like a heap of cards, sighing. "Ah. I just needed my pillow."

" _Cheesy_!"

"You know you love it."

"You are right, I do. Let's sleep now."

"I love you."

"And I love you."

"You... you understand what I'm saying, right?" Victor persists, his eyes shut tight and words spacing out in drowsiness, "I only have... you. Losing you is... is my _worst_ nightmare. You understand, right?"

Yuuri feels a lump in his throat. "I do, Victor," he assures him.

"I do," Victor grins, nuzzling his nose against Yuuri's neck as he begins to drift off, "I do. In sickness and in health. Until death parts us. I do..."

Yuuri holds him until he falls in deep slumber, unmoving, unthinking of the promises he's just made. Once he's sure Victor is dead to the world – and so is Yakov, in the other room – he looks for his black suit. He puts it on and climbs on the window ledge, and casts a last glance at Victor's peaceful, sleeping form, guilt knotting in his stomach. Then he jumps.

Victor is not going to be happy about this. But Yuuri _has_ to try his luck.

* * *

"Here, let me help, babe."

Isabella senses her fiancé over her shoulder, gently taking the plate out of her hand and putting it in the sink. She stares at him sideways; they haven't spoken a word since he came home (that was an hour ago). He looks lost – it's not new – he's often distracted, especially over the last few months, since that... that _incident_. It's not just that. Every now and then, something new pops up and the dust never settles. He has lines under his eyes – and he looks for excuses not to go to work – when JJ used to _love_ his job –

Regardless, she puts on a bright face. "How was your day?"

He doesn't look up from the sink. It's as if asking was a mistake. "It was... iffy." He trails off, pulls out a can of fresh juice and goes for the couch. Usually, he'd watch TV, but he sits repulsed from the remote, spaced out into the distance.

She feels guilty. She's a part of the problem, isn't she. He never gets a breather with the weird cases popping in the office and a wheelchair-bound girlfriend at home. She's had her bouts of depression, breakdowns, medications – and she's trying really hard to get better – but they're never getting back to square one, and it's a bitter pill they had to swallow.

To be honest, there were never such long silences in this house before. She hated – and loved – what people used to say about them behind their backs: _how narcissistic and loud and self-_ _obsessed_ _this couple is, this couple sure loved the sound of their voices, he's an egomaniac and she's a bitch, they sure have really loud sex, who'd even want to be_ _neighbours_ _with them_ –

"Bella, I'm really tired," JJ falls back on the couch, "Let's go to bed."

She wheeled herself to the bedroom without another word, and helps herself to the bed, before she notices him at the doorway, watching. She dislikes being coddled, and thankfully, he understands her.

He takes up the other side when she teases a subject. "I think we should postpone the wedding."

He whips his head in her direction. "What are ya saying? It's already been postponed once."

"I know, I just..." she looks away, switching on the bedside lamp, "I think you deserve more time to think about it." There it is, she said it – ripped it off like a band-aid, and now the wound is out and in the open.

JJ genuinely seems confused. "Think 'bout what?"

"Oh, c'mon JJ, you know what I'm talking about!" she says, getting impatient, "I know you love me and I love you, but sometimes that's not enough. You have to think about it – you have to know full well what you're signing up for. You have a stressful job, and on top of it – all of _this_ – my physiotherapy sessions, my depression – I'm not guilting you, not a bit! I'm not guilting you, I... truly, _deeply_ want you to put some time thinking whether you're up for this marriage, JJ."

"The first time I laid eyes on you I knew I wanted to marry you. I don't think anything has changed."

"JJ, please –"

She pauses at the sound of a _ding_. It's the doorbell, and this late at night, it can only be a duty call.

"I'll go check," JJ says, briskly making his way to the door, low-key relieved that the conversation was interrupted.

Isabella stares at her fingernails. He is stubborn. She knows what he'd do when he returns to the room: he'd get his gun and leave for the precinct, or he'd lay and loudly yawn and turn his back to her, not-sleeping. He'd persist until she relents, until she switches off the table lamp and turns the other side, not-sleeping either.

She hears the creek of the front door but cannot make out any voices. It's then that the lights in the room go out.

Her heart jumps. Coincidence, isn't it? It's a coincidence, it's a coincidence – it's _not_ a coincidence because she can hear a certain shuffling noise in the dark, and JJ's footsteps are not _this_ quiet – she desperately palms at the bed switch, the lamp – nothing works – she gropes blindly for the wheelchair but it slides out of reach –

" _JJ! HELP!_ " she screams as a last resort, clutching at the headboard.

A moment later she hears JJ's hurried, stumbling steps. "Bella, what – what happened? The main switch short-circuited, I think. Are ya alright?!"

"There's... there's someone else in the room."

She hears a rustle; it's JJ shielding her – and the cocking of a gun – the sound was too familiar to her ears so she figures it belonged to her fiancé as well – good thing JJ has his gun on him, she thinks. She isn't even halfway through the thought when there's a loud _bang_ _bang_ _bang_ _._ Her heart nearly stops; near her, she senses JJ shaking. With rage or fear, she doesn't know. He is the one who fired. He isn't holding back this time.

"Quit blowing holes in your ceiling, JJ. You know they can ricochet and hit you."

Isabella recognises the fierce static of the monotone. It's slightly different than she remembers (from TV, mostly) but still quite characteristic. She relaxes a bit, but the apprehension never dies. What could the Eros vigilante want from them, and why would he shut out all the lights?

JJ seems to have similar questions in mind. "What do ya want?" he spits angrily. He is still stiff, alert, and might shoot at the slightest movement.

"I need to have a conversation."

"About what?"

"About Victor Nikiforov."

JJ laughs. It's humourless, derisive. "Done with your so-called social service, are ya? Ya up for hire to celebrities now?"

"He's innocent. You know it. He didn't kill that man and the woman. You must've seen their post mortem reports. The woman shot herself and the man chewed a poison pill. I saw it. Victor – Victor Nikiforov was never there."

There's a split-minute of silence. JJ hesitates. "The reports haven't arrived yet. But let's say I believe you. I did see the foam marks on the man. But I also witnessed Nikiforov shooting their faces off. He came back to finish the job. There is no way he isn't affiliated to this – this cult. He can't escape prison either way. You realise this cult is listed under domestic terrorists now? And so will you, soon."

"For fuck's sake, Officer, that was not Victor. You found him at his own apartment for crying out loud! That's the last place you'd find someone on the run!" The vigilante seems to be running out of patience. Even through his pitch-distorted monotone, he sounds wilder, more desperate. "Look, I can't explain this to you because I haven't reached the bottom of it. I believe there's a _shape-shifter_ loose in the city. Someone who can take other people's appearances. Right now, there isn't enough evidence –"

"It's evidence enough for me. To file an official complaint against you again. Looks like one of the city _heroes_ has finally caught the crazies!" JJ snaps. "He openly backs criminals now."

" _Alleged_ criminals," Eros hisses at him, barely managing to keep his temper. "Look, this is just a request. I just need some time and I'll prove it you – that it wasn't Victor. I just need fifteen days, or just a week. I just... I just wish you'd stall the investigation for a while. For just a week."

"You expect too much of me, vigilante."

"I have another offer."

"Go on."

"If you stall the investigation by a week, I will surrender to the police by the end of it. I will convince my partner to go into retirement. He hasn't been long in this after all. You'll have my identity. And you will have your law and order back."

"All this for one guy? D'ya know him personally, eh?"

"Just trying to save an innocent man from getting a life sentence. One week, that's all I ask."

There's a long, pregnant pause. Isabella waits, unease nagging at the pit of her stomach. She knows the media sensationalises JJ's animosity towards the vigilantes, but he has never truly hated them. Never really liked them either. She usually guessed he's fine with them unless they interfere with his direct course of work. Which is exactly what Eros is asking for.

"Alright," JJ huffs disconcertedly, "You got a deal."


End file.
